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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27863353">With Candy Canes and Silver Lanes That Glow</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening'>WelpThisIsHappening</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Once Upon a Time (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Tumblr Prompt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:49:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>36,658</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27863353</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An unconnected set of inevitably trope and kiss-filled stories where Emma Swan and Killian Jones live happily ever after. Once they banter just a bit, of course. </p><p>Or: Christmas prompts, the 2020 version.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>107</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Where the Love Light Gleams</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Back at it again with another round of Christmas prompts. This one comes from @shireness-says and is somehow both: "you had a business trip and i missed you so much that i kind of tore up the house in your absence like a dog with separation anxiety… sorry?" and “we’ve become the clingy newlyweds you always complained about. "</p><p>At least in theory. Feel free to send some more prompts from<a href="https://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/636435606418980864/101-fluffy-prompts">this list</a> and then tell me what your favorite Christmas movie is.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Are you moping? It kind of looks like you’re moping.”</p>
<p>“Wow, such unparalleled observational skills. You should become a private investigator.”</p>
<p>Sticking her tongue out, Ariel made some sort of objection-type noise in the back of her throat, which probably would have made Killian smile in any other situation. On any other day. A day that wasn’t Christmas Eve. </p>
<p>When he was absolutely, positively moping. </p>
<p>It was a miracle he hadn’t frozen like this. That would have done irreparable damage to his spine, he was sure. </p>
<p>He wasn’t really sitting up very straight. </p>
<p>“There can’t possibly still be private investigators in the world,” Ariel challenged, brushing a wayward strand of hair away from her face and it was far too windy on the docks. If Killian didn’t get off the docks soon, he was going to scream. </p>
<p>Or mope for the rest of the holiday season. At least until the New Year. That seemed reasonable, honestly. </p>
<p>He was going to strangle Liam. </p>
<p>This was all his fault. </p>
<p>“You’re kidding me, right? What—what kind of world do you think we’re living in?”<br/>
<br/>
Ariel shrugged. “One that’s progressed past the need for private investigators, obviously. And I object to the notion that I would require any sort of PI-type skills to know that you’re being an absolute and complete, although also kind of understandable, idiot.”<br/>
<br/>
“Those words don’t go together.”<br/>
<br/>
“What do people hire private investigators for, anyway?”<br/>
<br/>
“Loads of stuff.”<br/>
<br/>
“Give me one example.”<br/>
<br/>
He huffed, irritation rattling around his skull and mixing in with a begrudging appreciation because he knew Ariel felt bad and maybe he’d kick Liam too. “Missing kids.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeesh, that’s awfully negative.”<br/>
<br/>
“What was that about accusing me of moping before? I’m playing to those accusations.”<br/>
<br/>
“Ok, but we already decided they were observations, so you don’t get to rename them now that you’re feeling particularly jerk-like.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m here, aren’t I? Makes it seem less jerk-like.”</p>
<p>Another shrug. And a specific quirk of her lips that Killian was far too well-acquainted with. The muscles in his cheeks were almost starting to ache. </p>
<p>Presumably from holding them in this position for so long. </p>
<p>He was absolutely moping. </p>
<p>But he’d already been in Boston two days longer than he planned on, and none of this was really going according to plan. He’d checked his phone no less than forty-seven times in the last forty-five minutes. He hated that. Staring at that screen made him feel like a clingy freak, who couldn’t go more than a few minutes without talking to his girlfriend, and Killian had complained about those people enough times that his current tendency to do it made him despise himself just a bit. </p>
<p>And yet he couldn’t stop. </p>
<p>His thumbs flew across the keys, sending complaints and updates and smiling in spite of his own situation. </p>
<p>Like a psychopath. One who was quite obviously frustrated. </p>
<p>With several thousand things, it seemed — the most pressing of which was his distinct lack of festive nature, caused almost entirely by the issues with the expansion in Boston and adding another ship in Boston was supposed to be easy. </p>
<p>Until Eric got the flu, and it was understandably difficult to captain a sightseeing holiday cruise when you couldn’t actually stand up for more than two minutes at a time, and Killian couldn’t say no to his brother when they both had so much money tied up in this, and if Liam was going to fly in to make sure everything stayed the metaphorical course, then the least Killian could do was drive in from New York. </p>
<p>Or so Liam had told him. In no uncertain terms. </p>
<p>Except Liam had also brought Belle with him and that somehow seemed like cheating, and Killian should have asked Emma to come. </p>
<p>She had to work.<br/>
<br/>
He’d missed Mary Margaret and David’s Christmas Eve party. </p>
<p>Which normally wouldn’t have felt like the end of the world, partially because Mary Margaret’s fruitcake was notoriously awful, but this year it made Killian’s heart feel like it was fragmenting in his chest and Emma’s photos had gotten progressively more and more blurry as the night went on. Mary Margaret also notoriously bought a questionable number of Prosecco bottles for the Christmas Eve party. </p>
<p>“You are,” Ariel agreed, a string of words that caught Killian off guard when he was so deep in his own wallowing. “Which is super nice, but—”<br/>
<br/>
“—How can there be a but in this situation?”<br/>
<br/>
“There are several, actually, except the biggest one is how three different people on tonight’s cruise wanted to know why the first mate was so obviously distracted.”<br/>
<br/>
“They called me first mate?”<br/>
<br/>
“People think it’s funny to use nautical terms in real life.”</p>
<p>Slumping forward did not do anything to help the state of Killian’s spine, only managed to make sure his hair fluttered in front of his eyes when a salt-tinged breeze blew off the Harbor and he briefly wondered how dramatic he could get. He needed to exhale some more. </p>
<p>He needed to go home.<br/>
<br/>
“Anyway,” Ariel continued, “they wanted to know why the first mate was on his phone all the time, and if the first mate was available and—”<br/>
<br/>
“—I’m sorry, what?”</p>
<p>“You have a face, you know that right?”<br/>
<br/>
“Now you’re just saying words.”</p>
<p>If she kept sticking her tongue out at its current rate, it was going to get frost-bitten. “These are compliments, you’re an ass and I owe you just—a metric ton of rum, the good kind, for doing all of this.”<br/>
<br/>
“Giving me whiplash,” Killian muttered, but one side of his mouth tugged up despite his best efforts to remain as depressing as possible. Ariel’s eyes got brighter. Rivaled the lights still flickering along the railing of their very nice, very new, decidedly expensive multi-level ship, and it had only taken about fourteen seconds for Killian to make that one photo Emma had sent him his phone background. </p>
<p>That probably wasn’t weird.</p>
<p>“So, people wanted to know about you,” Ariel said, “and your previously discussed face, and rather than employee a PI because it’s not 1947—”<br/>
<br/>
“—Oddly specific.”<br/>
<br/>
“I will kill you.”<br/>
<br/>
“God bless us, everyone.”<br/>
<br/>
“Your very helpful and exceedingly sure of his own obnoxious brand of humor brother was very quick to inform all the interested parties that the first mate was distracted because he unfortunately wasn’t with his wife for Christmas.”</p>
<p>Ariel’s murder threat was not only out of place considering the date, it was pointless because he was going to guarantee he died all on his own.<br/>
<br/>
Killian nearly fell off the edge of the dock. </p>
<p>One of his knees buckled, gaping at his friend and business partner like she’d only recently grown a few extra heads. She didn’t shrug again. Smiled, in her best impression of a variety of fictional and overly confident cats, but her shoulders stayed frustratingly still and that was—</p>
<p>“Emma and I aren’t married,” Killian sputtered, not entirely stunned to find those particular words difficult to say in that order. Half a plan rattled around with the rest of the emotions circling his skull, and he hadn’t really acted on the plan, but he’d been pondering and considering for at least a few weeks before his phone had rung. </p>
<p>And that was only kind of a lie. </p>
<p>He’d been doing a lot more than pondering for much longer than a few weeks. Considering had flown out the imaginary window, like—as soon as he and Emma had moved in together. </p>
<p>Liam didn’t know any of that, though. </p>
<p>At least in theory. </p>
<p>Maybe strangling his brother was something of an overreaction. </p>
<p>He still wanted to go home, though. </p>
<p>“Liam knows that,” Ariel reasoned, “and I know that. And obviously you know that, but none of your on-water admirers know that, and you were playing your part very well.”<br/>
<br/>
“What?”<br/>
<br/>
“Glued to your phone, all night. Like a clingy newlywed.”<br/>
<br/>
“That’s ridiculous.”<br/>
<br/>
“Is it? Because while not technically true—”<br/>
<br/>
“—Or true at all,” Killian interrupted, and he wondered if he was getting used to the feel of his heart doing whatever it was doing, or he was just growing more melodramatic by the second. At some point in the last twelve minutes the idea of walking back to New York had become rather appealing. </p>
<p>“Well, whatever. It was a good excuse, and it’s not like it was one-sided texting and it’s kind of romantic. All things considered.”<br/>
<br/>
“What are all the things, exactly?”<br/>
<br/>
That shrug came with another smile — far too knowing for Killian’s liking, but he also knew Ariel wouldn’t go back on her rum-buying word, and he supposed there was something to be said for that. Especially if it was good rum. “If you’re going to play the part…”<br/>
<br/>
“Look who’s being a romantic now.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’ve spent most of the lead-up to Christmas trying to force-feed Pedialyte on my husband. Got to get my romance from somewhere and you’re like—Hallmark Channel ready.”<br/>
<br/>
“Probably couldn’t have as much alcohol, then.”<br/>
<br/>
“How many bottles of Prosecco do you think Mary Margaret bought this year?”</p>
<p>Tugging his phone out of his pocket, Killian scrolled back through the more than two dozen photos he’d been sent over the course of the night until he found the one he was looking for. Of a table covered in green-hued bottles with plastic champagne flutes that Mary Margaret must have bought in bulk and— </p>
<p>Ariel’s laugh hung in the air around them, louder than it probably should have been considering the time, but they were also by themselves and he was still kind of moping. So. The world could cope with their collective volume. </p>
<p>“Do you think she gets a discount for buying so many?”<br/>
<br/>
Killian shook his head. “If she doesn’t, she’s being robbed.”<br/>
<br/>
“Get the private investigators on the case.”<br/>
<br/>
“Challenge Liam to a comedic battle.”<br/>
<br/>
“Not if we’re calling it that,” Ariel argued, bumping her shoulder against Killian’s leg. And he wasn’t sure if he was actually smiling, but his lips were moving and his heart didn’t appear to be shattering quite as much anymore and he hoped Emma fell asleep. </p>
<p>On Mary Margaret and David’s couch. </p>
<p>They wouldn’t let her go home, he was sure. </p>
<p>He hadn't gotten a text in awhile. </p>
<p>He was less sure about the shadows moving towards them, though — because he’d been a little distracted when they docked, but he watched Liam and Belle get into their rental car and there was absolutely no reason for either one of them to be back on the docks, but anyone else showing up on the docks at eleven o’clock at night was probably a sign that Killian and Ariel were about to be robbed. In a far more literal sense than whatever happened with Mary Margaret and her plastic champagne flutes. </p>
<p>“You guys good?” Ariel asked, sounding more aware of what was going on than she should have been. Killian’s eyes narrowed. </p>
<p>That made it only slightly difficult to see the overall width of his brother’s answering smile. </p>
<p>Plus, it was dark out.</p>
<p>“Better,” Liam said, “she's an absolute natural.”</p>
<p>Scrunching her nose, Belle waved off the compliment. “Please, all I have to do is stand there and be helpful.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, but that’s more than Killian was able to do today, so…”<br/>
<br/>
“He was distracted.”<br/>
<br/>
“And standing right here,” Killian muttered, although standing was a little generous. His left knee was still awful bent. In an unnatural sort of way.<br/>
<br/>
“Doesn’t that hurt?” Liam asked. Gesturing towards Killian’s posture, he tilted his head and that was even more judgmental than any of the words Ariel hadn’t bothered saying. “Can’t be good for your ACL or whatever.”<br/>
<br/>
Belle clicked her tongue. “Adding the whatever makes it sound less official, really.”<br/>
<br/>
“And we’re trying to be official,” Ariel chipped in, clamoring to her feet. By using the side of Killian’s jacket for leverage, tugging on fabric until she threatened to tear it and that also would have been impressive if it didn’t feel suspiciously like he was about to pass out. </p>
<p>She wrapped her arms around Killian’s middle. </p>
<p>That kind of helped, honestly. </p>
<p>He’d never admit to it.   </p>
<p>“Official about what, exactly?” Killian asked. “What are you guys doing here?”</p>
<p>Liam’s smile got wider. “We could ask you the same question, but we’ve already claimed way too much of your time and—”<br/>
<br/>
“—Wait, what?”<br/>
<br/>
“Killian seriously,” Ariel sighed, “if you keep interrupting, we’re never going to get to the fun and passably romantic part of the plan.”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, no it’s definitely more than passably romantic,” Belle argued. </p>
<p>“Depends on him, don’t you think?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, but he was glued to his phone and I’ve got at least twenty bucks on this happening before New Year’s Eve, so—”<br/>
<br/>
“—New Year’s Eve would be really romantic, actually!”<br/>
<br/>
“No, no, no,” Liam objected, voice rising on every repeat, “I’ve got Christmas morning, and that means he’s got to go now.”<br/>
<br/>
Not having anything to drink made it impossible for Killian to claim intoxication as a reason for the current spin rate of his head. Metaphorically, at least. Even so, he felt a little dizzy and slightly out of breath, trying very hard not to topple into the water. </p>
<p>There was no way he’d be able to disentangle himself from Ariel before he did that. </p>
<p>And then she’d get annoyed. </p>
<p>“What is going on?” Killian demanded, pausing between each word for emphasis. Liam’s lips disappeared. Behind his teeth. </p>
<p>While he failed spectacularly at containing his laugh.<br/>
<br/>
“We’re kicking you out,” Belle said simply, like that made sense and they hadn’t all but required his presence in Boston less than seventy-two hours earlier. </p>
<p>Killian blinked.<br/>
<br/>
Once, twice. Half a dozen times. Nothing changed. Ariel’s arms tightened, maybe — but Liam didn’t move, and Belle’s nose still had that scrunch-like effect, and the lights on their ship really did make it appropriately festive. </p>
<p>“And apologizing,” Ariel added. “We should make that more obvious.”</p>
<p>Blinking more was stupid. </p>
<p>Talking probably would have helped. But Killian’s tongue suddenly took up far too much space in his mouth, next to all the imaginary cotton balls that were impeding his ability to breathe and it could not have been healthy for so many body parts to consistently fail like that. </p>
<p>“This is really my fault,” Liam admitted, taking a step forward to clap Killian on the shoulder. His right knee bent that time. At least his reactions were symmetrical. “And I—well, I...I was so worried about the money and the party and—”<br/>
<br/>
“—We didn’t really think about your plans,” Belle finished.<br/>
<br/>
Opening his mouth, Killian genuinely could not come up with a word to describe whatever sound he made. Something between a scoff and that huff he was trying to accomplish before, but also drifting dangerously close to laughter borne of disbelief and his back actually had the gall to pop when he leaned forward. </p>
<p>“I don’t have plans.”<br/>
<br/>
“Please,” Ariel scoffed, “you have at least the hope for plans, and that’s nice in a way that deserves a better adjective and all that rum I promise.”<br/>
<br/>
Liam’s eyes widened. “How much rum are we talking?”<br/>
<br/>
“Enough that you stop spending so much time talking about the proper light to string ratio.”<br/>
<br/>
“What does that even mean?” Killian balked. </p>
<p>Shaking her head, Belle moved into his space as well. Both her hands landed on the front of his jacket, and Killian wasn’t exactly cold per se, but there was something inherently comforting about his sister-in-law’s smile and the way she always smelled a bit like vanilla. </p>
<p>As if she were just minutes away from baking something, at all times. </p>
<p>“Telling you to come here was a dick move,” Belle announced, Ariel’s head finding Killian’s shoulder when she started to cackle once more. They were all standing too close to each other. Someone was going to step on someone else’s foot. “And,” she continued, “Liam was right. This is totally his fault, but he’s running on like...no sleep, because we’re—”<br/>
<br/>
She grit her teeth, another unfinished sentence that frustrated Killian for about eight and half seconds. Before it all clicked at nine.<br/>
<br/>
“No, shit.”<br/>
<br/>
“Shit,” Belle confirmed, another smile and her left foot landed on Killian’s right when he pulled into a far-too-tight hug. Ariel had to move her arms.<br/>
<br/>
“Babies are expensive you see,” Liam said, “and we’d already funneled so much money into this, the party had to happen and I wasn’t sure if Belle was going to be able to come with me because—”<br/>
<br/>
“—They don’t tell you morning sickness lasts all day,” she grumbled.<br/>
<br/>
Killian’s laugh had an almost manic edge to it, suddenly happier than he thought he could be and that was more appropriate for the time. Of both the day and season. </p>
<p>“So,” Liam added, “I kind of lost my mind about Eric, and didn’t think about you or Emma or how stupid you’d be when you weren’t around Emma at Christmas because it’s so goddamn obvious what you’re planning.”</p>
<p>Heat rose in Killian’s cheeks, a questionably large inferno that suddenly flared to life in the pit of his stomach. “I haven’t totally decided.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, well that’s dumb.”<br/>
<br/>
“Rife with opinions tonight, aren’t you?”<br/>
<br/>
“We’re kicking you out,” Belle repeated. “With our apologies that I wasn’t on the ship tonight because that shrimp appetizer smell made me want to die a little.”<br/>
<br/>
Ariel sighed. “Do all our statements have to be so violent? There should be more positivity to all of this.”<br/>
<br/>
“There will be if Killian can get me my twenty bucks.”<br/>
<br/>
“Why are you betting on this?” he asked, but the distinct lack of frustration in his voice was obvious even to him. Belle laughed.<br/>
<br/>
“Because calling you a newlywed was not nearly as unbelievable as it should have been, and if you get with the program you could probably have your rehearsal dinner on one of our very accommodating ships with an appetizer that does not include shrimp.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m not really a huge fan of shellfish.”<br/>
<br/>
“See, the perfect plan.”<br/>
<br/>
An objection sat on the tip of Killian’s tongue — if only because he was decidedly stubborn and now a little worried about his brother’s expanding family, but his own family was not in Boston and he’d really like Emma to be his family. In an official sort of capacity. </p>
<p>“But what about—”<br/>
<br/>
“—No, absolutely not,” Belle cut in before Killian could finish, “that’s what we were doing. Going over the plans for tomorrow’s lunch cruise, and everything you were supposed to do, which I’m pretty confident I can do now, mostly because my husband is here and I won’t be tempted to text him the entire time.”<br/>
<br/>
“At least not much,” Liam quipped. The pinch between Killian’s eyebrows was going to stay there forever. If not longer. “And then I’ll also text you, at an appropriate time tomorrow, to apologize for being a massive Christmas bastard.”<br/>
<br/>
Hair hit Killian’s cheek. Not his. Distinctly red and smelling like shampoo she’d definitely spent far too much money on, Ariel’s hair blew around her when she threw her head back. With laughter. The catching sort, spreading like wildfire through their tiny group, until Belle had to wrap her arm around her middle to stay up, and Killian’s stomach ached just a bit and it took him a moment to realize he’d made another fire pun. </p>
<p>In his head.<br/>
<br/>
He needed to go home. </p>
<p>“Was Ariel a distraction?”</p>
<p>She kicked his ankle. “Rude, and yeah obviously. Liam is so goddamn overprotective with his unborn child, it’s disgusting.”<br/>
<br/>
“And nice,” Belle grinned. </p>
<p>Exhaling, Liam tugged on the back of his hair. A tell, and an apology without the words. Killian wanted the words. Even if it took a few extra minutes. “Seriously,” Liam said, “a Christmas bastard, which is not an excuse, but—I’m sorry. For the batard’ness, and bringing you here, and not explaining the reasons behind the bastard. And also for ruining your plans.”<br/>
<br/>
“I really have no plans,” Killian promised, but that fell a bit flat and he at least had rather specific wants. Of the desire-type variety. </p>
<p>“So fix that. Like as soon as possible.”<br/>
<br/>
“For my twenty bucks,” Belle said with another yank on Killian’s jacket. The poor jacket was not going to last much longer. </p>
<p>Ariel rolled her eyes. “She’s obsessed with the twenty bucks.”<br/>
<br/>
“Because your husband will have to pay it!”<br/>
<br/>
“Should you have bet with an invalid?” Killian asked, trying without much immediate success to take a step away from either one of them. “And what kind of Pedialyte flavor are you forcing?”<br/>
<br/>
“The purple kind.”<br/>
<br/>
“Blue’s definitely better.”<br/>
<br/>
Liam looked frustrated. </p>
<p>That felt like something of a victory.<br/>
<br/>
“Were you going to go, Killian? Or—”<br/>
<br/>
Kissing the top of Ariel’s hair and pulling Belle into one more hug, Killian flipped off his brother, muttered <em> Merry Christmas, don’t sink the boat</em>, and would never admit to running back towards his car. Or how quickly he drove home. </p>
<p>It took at least twenty-six minutes to find a parking spot. </p>
<p>Four blocks away. </p>
<p>Still, Killian assumed he was running on holiday-fueled adrenaline and something almost resembling romance and the distinct lack of anything in his pocket was a challenge he viewed as quirky more than anything else. </p>
<p>He bounded up the steps, nearly dropping his keys more than once before he managed to unlock the door only to be immediately hit in the face. With what felt suspiciously like garland. </p>
<p>And Killian hadn’t really planned on spending much time in their apartment, only thinking about a few hours of sleep before driving to Mary Margaret and David’s house on the Island because he might have come up with half a list of sweepingly romantic things to do, but he wasn’t a total jerk who would show up on someone else’s doorstep in the middle of the goddamn night, and it obviously did not make a single ounce of difference. </p>
<p>While he was being strangled with garland. </p>
<p>Blinking against the darkness of their living room, Killian’s brain couldn’t quite come to terms with what he was seeing. Like the ninth floor of the Herald Square Macy’s had exploded. Tinsel hung from what appeared to be actual ivy, pinned along the top of the wall with startling accuracy. Lights meant to resemble icicles reflected against every window pane, and there was an actual tree in the corner. </p>
<p>Every one of his inhales had a distinct pine-like scent to it, like he was standing in the middle of a forest, and Killian did not think they owned that many ornaments when he left. </p>
<p>They hadn’t owned any ornaments, so it was a rather easy number to remember. </p>
<p>A star was balanced precariously at the top of the tree, paper snowflakes dropping from the ceiling and—</p>
<p>Emma curled in the corner of the couch. </p>
<p>With at least four blankets covering her. She was a notorious blanket thief. </p>
<p>Mary Margaret hadn’t woken up either, twisted into the other end of the cushions, and Killian couldn’t fathom how they were comfortable, but he was also admittedly a little distracted by the desire of his lungs to keep providing oxygen to the rest of his body and David’s eyes were alarmingly wide. </p>
<p>“What are you doing here?”<br/>
<br/>
“I live here,” Killian hissed, swatting away the garland. Bits of it fell onto the top of his sneakers. “What are you doing here?”<br/>
<br/>
“Helping.”<br/>
<br/>
“What?”<br/>
<br/>
“Helping,” David said slowly, like Killian simply did not understand the word and not all the meaning behind it. “She—well, the decorations left something to be desired, and you know Mary Margaret. There’s a project, so she’s got to help and—”<br/>
<br/>
“—Wait, wait, wait, did Emma do all this?”</p>
<p>Waving both his hands in the air, David didn’t bother to say <em> obviously </em> when the movement made it so abundantly clear. Killian’s jaw dropped. </p>
<p>Something popped there as well. Which probably wasn’t what woke Emma up, but thinking that was almost nice in another way that deserve a better adjective, and the overall force of her smile as soon as her eyes landed on him made every bit of splintered heart still lingering in his chest knit itself back together. </p>
<p>Immediately. </p>
<p>“Should I be concerned that you’re deserting?” she asked, hooking her chin over the back of the couch. As if she’d been expecting this exact situation.<br/>
<br/>
Killian shook his head. “Nah, this is a wholly authorized shore leave.”<br/>
<br/>
David’s groan very likely hurt the inside of his throat. </p>
<p>“What happened here, Swan?”<br/>
<br/>
Pink immediately colored her expression, every one of her teeth obvious when she grit them. Mary Margaret must have been the soundest sleeper in the Universe. Or she’d had a questionable amount of Prosecco to drink that night. “Christmas?”<br/>
<br/>
That was as good a reason as any, honestly. Although that stubborn streak of his ran several nautical miles wide, and nearly tripping over the garland on his few steps towards the couch made Emma’s shoulders shake. </p>
<p>Killian knelt in front of her.</p>
<p>Step one accomplished, then. </p>
<p>“It’s super lame,” Emma warned, but Killian’s heart was doing more biologically impossible things and his eyes fluttered when she brushed his hair away from his forehead. “I just—well, you weren’t here, and that kind of ruined any of my festive-type feelings, which as we all know are shaky at best.”<br/>
<br/>
“Work in progress, love.”<br/>
<br/>
Her tongue sticking between her lips was not as annoying as Ariel’s had been. Killian figured that had something to do with the desire to kiss her. And not Ariel. Who would have smacked him at even the allusion to such a thing. “Well,” Emma mumbled, “the lack of appropriate holiday spirit reared its head like—as soon as you closed the door behind you, but then I went to the party and you kept texting me and—”<br/>
<br/>
“—I’m sorry, I was texting you? You were texting me!”<br/>
<br/>
“God,” David grumbled, dropping into the only chair left in the living room. There should have been more chairs in the living room. “It’s ridiculous, the pair of you.”<br/>
<br/>
Killian narrowed his eyes. Glaring was too difficult. “Why are you here?”<br/>
<br/>
“I told you, helping.”<br/>
<br/>
“He did,” Emma said. “Both him and Mary Margaret, really. I, ok—well, whoever was texting who, it doesn’t really matter. Just that Ruth thinks we’re married.”<br/>
<br/>
Of all the ways that sentence could have ended, Killian was loath to admit hearing that David’s mother believed the same lie Liam had been spouting to Boston tourists was not one of them. </p>
<p>“She does,” Emma continued, rushing over the words, “for some reason. But she kept saying how nice it was that a young couple like us was able to keep in touch when we weren’t together for the holidays and I was really kind of drunk, and even more upset that you weren’t going to be here, so my mind just kind of latched onto things and—”<br/>
<br/>
Pulling in a deep breath made her shoulders shift again, Killian’s eyes taking in every moment so he could commit them all to memory and the question was out of his mouth before he realized Emma was still talking.<br/>
<br/>
“Will you marry me?”<br/>
<br/>
“Do you want to get married?”</p>
<p>David fell out of the chair. </p>
<p>Slid, technically. Directly onto the floor and next to presents that were almost perfectly wrapped with color coordinated bows on each of them. </p>
<p>“What?” Killian breathed, Emma’s hand flying to her mouth. Left one, so that helped too actually. None of his fingers shook when he reached up, pulling that same hand down and kissing the bend of her knuckles. Tears clouded Emma’s eyes, falling on her cheeks faster than he could brush them away. </p>
<p>With his mouth.<br/>
<br/>
Killian tried all the same. </p>
<p>While ignoring the increasing volume of David’s rather uproarious laugh. He was texting someone. Probably Ariel, who very likely was requiring play-by-play. And had timed Killian’s drive home. </p>
<p>“That was kind of...this,” Emma explained, nodding towards the living room. “I—I wanted to decorate, and make it Christmas when you got back because...well, I blame the alcohol and your brother and—”<br/>
<br/>
“—That’s fair, honestly. Belle’s pregnant, by the way.”<br/>
<br/>
“No shit.”<br/>
<br/>
“Shit,” Killian confirmed, a repeat he’d share later. Once they got all this engagement business sorted out. “They’re pretty incredible decorations.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, well flattery will get you everywhere.” Huffing out a breath, Emma’s head dropped to his, and that made it easier to get his fingers in her hair. “This made a lot of sense when I was drunker. But, uh—I needed to do something with all that energy and sudden holiday thoughts and I’ve got a lot of thoughts about your face, you know that?”<br/>
<br/>
Ariel was going to be insufferable. </p>
<p>Killian would make her buy some Moscato, too. That was Emma’s favorite.<br/>
<br/>
“Gave me something to do,” Emma added, “and then I figured you’d get home and there’d be some sweeping and we could do something about Ruth’s assumptions and I think we’d be really good at being married.”<br/>
<br/>
Kissing her was the only reasonable option. Even as David sounded like he was in physical pain. </p>
<p>Surging up, Killian’s mouth all but slammed into Emma’s, tilting his head so he got to that one, perfect angle that allowed his tongue to swipe across her lips and draw that even more perfect sound out of her, and he was only dimly aware of Mary Margaret waking up. The couch creaked when she moved. </p>
<p>Killian didn’t. </p>
<p>His fingers carded through Emma’s hair, only breaking apart to appease his lungs and the requirements of his body before kissing her again, and his knees kind of ached. Presumably from supporting most of their collective weight when Emma was kind of draped across him.<br/>
<br/>
“Don’t go in the bedroom, ok?”<br/>
<br/>
Humming against her only guaranteed David made another noise of protest, but it was nice that they’d helped decorate and Killian could only imagine how they’d gotten all that ivy on the wall. </p>
<p>“That’s, uh—” Emma leaned back, one of her eyes squeezed closed. “Where we put all the extra non-holiday stuff, and it’s kind of a disaster.”</p>
<p>“Tore up the apartment, like she had separation anxiety,” Mary Margaret slurred, and Killian refused to be held accountable for whatever his face did at that. </p>
<p>David rolled his whole head.<br/>
<br/>
Emma shrugged. He liked that one the best. “So, uh—”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah,” Killian finished, before he could stop himself and any qualms either one of them had once had about clingy relationships or relationship qualifiers appeared to disappear before their eyes. Like frost on the window. Which was seasonally appropriate. “I think we’d be really good at marriage.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah. Where’d you get the decorations from, though?”<br/>
<br/>
“You’re welcome,” Mary Margaret replied, sounding a bit more coherent and just as exhausted. That was fair. It was close to four in the morning. </p>
<p>Emma nodded. “Definite separation anxiety. So we should probably not do this again, and then you can help decorate.”<br/>
<br/>
“Deal,” Killian promised, and they didn’t bother waiting for an appropriate time to call Liam. Or Ariel, who crowded into the video call because, as she claimed, it was her living room and her twenty bucks and her shriek probably affected the structural integrity of her house. </p>
<p>The rum showed up two days later. </p>
<p>And made for a very good toast, as soon Killian slipped the ring onto Emma’s finger. They picked it out together. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. All These Things and More</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Today's festive prompt comes from @illicitaffairslongingstares who asked for any of these prompts, so naturally I tried to put all of them in one story. They are: "people are jerks, but not you." // "a thunderstorm is rolling through town and you’re scared of lightening/thunder so i’ll protect you." // "this is probably a bad time, but marry me?"</p><p>Please tell me what your favorite Christmas cookie is, and come hang out on <a href="http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a> if you're down.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Are you alright?”<br/><br/>Emma bites her tongue. So as to also bite back the rather immediate and far too snarky response sitting there. Of course she’s not alright. She doesn’t normally walk like this — trying very hard not to bend her knee because somehow that makes everything hurt more, and she can’t quite believe that anything could hurt more than the twelve blocks she essentially dragged herself down, but there are also scrapes on either one of her palms and the lack of any creaking floor behind her means the voice has not left yet. </p><p>That only kind of frustrates her. </p><p>Hopping on the one good foot she has left, Emma nearly falls over more than once. Which is very impressive, actually. Both because she hasn’t moved very much and because the lack of stability in either one of her knees isn’t entirely biological. </p><p>He’s stupid good looking. </p><p>The voice, who she suddenly realizes belongs to that guy across the hall and she knew that guy across the hall had very nice eyes, from the few times she’d allowed herself to acknowledge such a ridiculous thing, but now she’s also got to deal with the knowledge that his hair kind of artfully falls across his forehead when he bends his neck at that very precise angle and—</p><p>“How did you manage to get up the stairs?”</p><p>Shoulders slumping, Emma lets out a breath she wishes she hadn’t been holding. She’s already running low on functioning body parts, doing any extra damage to her lungs just seems like a bad choice. Although that could be the sub-headline of her night at this point. </p><p>“Sheer force of will,” she replies, not quite able to keep the sarcasm out of the words and that almost feels like a vaguely twisted victory when one side of the guy’s mouth tugs up. The one she’s inexcusably staring at. </p><p>So as to distract herself from the overall color of his eyes. </p><p>Maybe she’s concussed. </p><p>That’d make her feel better, honestly. </p><p>“Still not really an answer, though.”<br/><br/>“I’ve almost forgotten the question,” Emma mutters, and she’ll use her injury as an excuse. For the continued sarcasm, and what feels suspiciously like a fluttering heart because the guy’s mouth is starting to twist into something that looks suspiciously like a smirk. </p><p>Directed at her.<br/><br/>He’s wearing gym shorts, it’s absurd. And no socks. </p><p>“Aren’t your feet cold?”<br/><br/>Absolutely smirking. Still at her. There’s no one else in the hallway, it’s two in the goddamn morning. “They are, in fact,” he nods. His hair moves. It looks very soft. So she’s probably insane now. “But you’re very loud, so—”<br/><br/>“—Shit, did I wake you up?”<br/><br/>“Not really. I was admittedly a little concerned you were being attacked over there, though.”<br/><br/>“Were you going to defend my honor from unknown enemies without any socks on?”<br/><br/>“I was seriously considering it.”<br/><br/>Laughing somehow makes several different muscles and at least half a dozen joints ache, but Emma can’t seem to help it and the overall tightness between her shoulder blades lessens ever so slightly. “Very gallant of you.”<br/><br/>“That’s my schtick, for sure,” he agrees, far too charming and far too easy and Emma’s keys are still on the floor. That was her problem, really. </p><p>Getting her keys out of her back pocket was something of a challenge when she was trying to balance all her weight on her right foot, and the lack of feeling in her fingers after spending the last four hours chasing a skip through Central Park made it all but impossible to get the kind of grip she needed and, well—</p><p>Cursing every single God she could think of when she dropped those keys and then was apparently unable to bend the right way to pick them back up seemed entirely reasonable. </p><p>She hopes her ankle didn’t swell too much. </p><p>She hopes that skip also trips down some ice-covered stairs in Central Park and twists one of his ankles. Either one, Emma’s not going to be specific. And she hopes every single member of the New York City Department of Public Works gets coal in their stocking. Or whoever is in charge of de-icing Central Park stairs. </p><p>God, she hates Central Park. </p><p>Navigating that place continues to be an insurmountable challenge, no matter how long she lives in this city. </p><p>“So, uh,” sockless, very good looking neighbor guy continues, leaning across his doorway and Emma can’t believe she doesn’t know his name. She can’t ask him his name now. Then he’ll know she’s as insane as she absolutely is. “Should we rehash, then?”<br/><br/>“About your question?”<br/><br/>“And if you’re ok.”<br/><br/>“Oh, right, right, right, I’m uh—”</p><p>Lying should be easier. Should be second nature, honestly. Lying’s part of the gig, lulling skips into a false sense of security that makes catching them easier and getting paid inevitable, and Emma would very much like to lie. If only to try and convince herself. </p><p>She shakes her head. </p><p>So, that’s a weird chance of pace. </p><p>Sockless, very good looking neighbor guy whose shirt is actually far tighter than Emma realized, gives her a tight-lipped smile, nods his head once, like that’s that and crosses the space between them. Which also feels much smaller, all of the sudden. </p><p>He picks her keys up on the first try. </p><p>Figures, he’s still in possession of two functioning ankles. </p><p>“Which one is it?”<br/><br/>“Hmmm?”<br/><br/>“Your keys, love,” he says, as if that’s something he can say and it’s entirely possible Emma simply imagined that. Delirium is admittedly starting to sink in just a bit. Everything hurts. </p><p>“Oh, uh—the uh...the one with the dot. The—the green dot on it.”<br/><br/>Humming, he somehow makes sense of her garbled instruction and neither of them try to move closer to each other, but it happens all the same and he’s undeniably solid when Emma slumps against his side. </p><p>She still doesn’t know his name, it’s ridiculous. </p><p>She swats her hand against the wall as soon as her door swings open, finally finding the light and illuminating her apartment. Which is not very welcoming. Now or ever, really — but the inherent loneliness of the place feels as if it reaches out and slaps Emma in the face, while the very good looking sockless guy with questionably jacked arms is standing next to her. </p><p>Her cheeks ache. When she forces herself to smile. </p><p>“Thanks,” Emma says, “for the willingness to defend while not properly clothed and—”</p><p>One of his eyebrows lifts. “Do you not think I’m properly clothed?”<br/><br/>“You’re not wearing any socks.”<br/><br/>“You know more curse words than any sailor I have ever met.”<br/><br/>“Have you met a lot?”<br/><br/>Lifting a shoulder in what Emma can only assume is a shrug and a wordless brush-off, the glint in his eyes dims ever so slightly, but she also should not be noticing any sort of glint and she’s got to sit down. She’ll fall over otherwise. </p><p>“You should go to the doctor,” he says instead, nodding towards an ankle Emma can’t bring herself to look at. Feels like it’s swelling. To grapefruit-level proportions. “Urgent care, or something. Like—as soon as possible.”<br/><br/>“Are you a doctor and a knight in sockless armor?”<br/><br/>“You might be obsessed with my feet.”<br/><br/>“Nah, there’s a name for those kinds of people and that’s not—” Heat rises in Emma’s cheeks when she notices him smirking again, and it’s disappointing to realize this is the first time a guy has been in her apartment in months. She’s so lame, it’s ridiculous. “If I tell you something will you promise not to laugh?”<br/><br/>“Scouts honor.”<br/><br/>“You were not a boy scout,” Emma challenges, which is patently unfair when she also doesn’t know his name, so—“Can I insult you if I keep referring to you as sockless guy in my head?”<br/><br/>Leaving out very good looking is a victory she will cling to for the foreseeable future. </p><p>As is his answering laugh. </p><p>Not quite boisterous, but loud enough that his shoulders shake and his hair moves and she deserves at least two medals and possibly a plaque for not pushing her fingers into the strands.</p><p>“I’d rather you didn’t insult me at all,” he says, “but it does seem rude not to introduce myself when I know your name.”<br/><br/>“Less knight-like, honestly.”<br/><br/>“One of your friends has a habit of kicking on your door and shouting your full name. It’s exceedingly loud and absolutely impossible to ignore.”<br/><br/>“You’re an eavesdrop.”<br/><br/>“That’s not the right way to use that as an adjective, but your ankle is closing on pumpkin-type dimensions and—” An arm slips around her waist, directing Emma back towards her couch before she can even begin to object and she doesn’t want to object and he smells like soap. Nice soap. The kind of soap that could help lull her to sleep. As if that’s something a cleaning product is capable of. “Anyway,” he adds, “my name is Killian Jones, we should stop discussing my sock situation and I promise not to make fun of whatever you’ve already forgotten you were going to tell me.”<br/><br/>“Rude.”<br/><br/>“Your friend is ridiculously loud, do you know that?”</p><p>Emma nods. “That’s part of Ruby’s charm. And, uh—I don’t know that I can get back down the stairs. Plus, this isn’t really that bad.”</p><p>Liar. </p><p>Lying liar who lies. And Killian’s other eyebrow moved that time. </p><p>“I’d hate to see what could have possibly been worse. So, fine—don’t go down the stairs by yourself, then.”<br/><br/>“Do you see a lot of other people in this apartment?”<br/><br/>Bitterness replaces the sarcasm, which is far too telling an emotion and quite possibly Emma’s base emotion, but Killian doesn’t blink. He smiles, waving a hand through the air and it’s only then that she notices there’s only one hand and she’s got more questions and vaguely distracting thoughts about his eyes and his face and her lungs are doing that thing again.<br/><br/>Not functioning properly. </p><p>“And here I thought we’d gotten past the insults.”<br/><br/>Emma’s jaw drops. And pops slightly in the process, which is one of the more embarrassing things that’s happened to her that night.<br/><br/>“You don't know me,” she argues, louder than she’d like, but she’s so ridiculously tired and that’s a much more sweeping commentary about her life than she’s willing to admit. “I could—I could be a murderer!”<br/><br/>“Can’t be all that good at it if your murders end with broken ankles.”<br/><br/>“Ah, shit you think it’s broken?”<br/><br/>Killian shrugs. “I’m not a doctor, or a murderer. For the record as it were.”<br/><br/>“Saying it makes me more suspicious, quite frankly.”<br/><br/>“That is frank,” he chuckles, “and it’s not a trick, or anything except the kindness of relative strangers. Which, as everyone knows, gets accentuated at Christmas.”<br/><br/>“Not for another two weeks.”</p><p>“Christmas lasts for all of December, don’t you know that, Swan?”<br/><br/>Last names probably don’t count as endearments. This one sounds that way, though. As if it’s easy for him to say, and that probably has something to do with the return of the glint and her growing obsession with the various shades of blue in his eyes and Emma’s nodding before she’s totally come to grips with what she’s agreeing to. He gets her Tylenol before he leaves. </p><hr/><p>It’s not broken. </p><p>So, that’s something. And about nothing else. Negative else. </p><p>Purple bruises and some other color that almost resembles black swirl across the skin covering Emma’s absolutely worthless ankle, a pair of crutches under either one of her arms that are already starting to chafe her sides, and she took a perverse pleasure in the overall circumference of Killian’s eyes when let out a deluge of curse words in the Urgent Care office. </p><p>Part of him almost looked proud, though. </p><p>Which is just—it’s ridiculous. </p><p>Emma blames his ability to smirk as potently as it does. It’s throwing her off entirely. Although that might have something to do with her inherent lack of balance as well, and this might be Bill de Blasio’s fault. None of the sidewalks in this stupid city are clear. </p><p>And that is why, Emma will eventually argue, it makes entirely perfect sense to hobble up the stairs back towards her locked apartment door, drop her keys in Killian’s upturned palm and say—“Do you want to come in? I have tequila.”<br/><br/>“It’s eleven in the morning.”<br/><br/>“Ok.”<br/><br/>The smirk gains power. Festive-based power, because they walked by at least four stores with garland in their windows and Emma’s always prided herself on her ability to ignore such emotional nonsense, but now this guy who is presumably wearing socks since he’s also wearing boots, keeps looking at her like she’s fascinating and not entirely depressing and there’s this little inkling of hope in the pit of her stomach. </p><p>‘Tis the season, or whatever. </p><hr/><p>It just kind of happens, really. </p><p>Over the next five days, Killian Jones doesn’t quite move into Emma’s apartment, but he becomes something of a presence at the end of her couch and he’s very good at dialing for delivery, and reminding her to take the medication the doctor at Urgent Care prescribed, and it’s so goddamn nice she cannot begin to cope with it. </p><p>He makes her laugh with startling regularity — helpful since August had adamantly told her she couldn’t come back to work without another doctor’s note because, as he put it, <em> he wasn’t getting sued, Emma </em>, but that also meant it was very difficult to get a paycheck, and it’s far too easy to fall into this routine. </p><p>Even when she starts to wonder—</p><p>“Don’t you have a job?” Emma asks on day six, which also happens to be a Friday and it’s kind of insane he doesn’t have something better to do on his Friday night. Than sit in the corner of her couch and scroll through GrubHub listings. </p><p>She’d do something drastic for some Indian food. </p><p>“Of course.”<br/><br/>Widening her eyes, Emma waits for the rest of the explanation. It doesn’t come. Patience has never been one of the virtues she possesses, though. So. “And that job is...”</p><p>“Are you worried about my ability to pay rent, Swan?”<br/><br/>“In theory. And curious, I guess. About—”<br/><br/>“—Me?” Killian quips, but he’s far more accurate than Emma wants him to be and the overall force of his ensuing smirk sends her flying into the metaphorical stratosphere. Of friendship, or whatever. She figures they’re friends now. </p><p>If he orders her extra garlic naan. </p><p>“I teach,” he continues, “some gen-history classes at CUNY. Finished the semester about a week and a half ago, which is why you only sort of woke me up before. Grading is exhausting, and occasionally depressing and I was trying very hard not to fall asleep on top of all the essays like a giant cliche, when you announced your presence to the hallway.”<br/><br/>Gritting her teeth, Emma fights off the wholly unacceptable wave of disappointment cresting her consciousness. She’d sort of—well, she’s not really sure what she hoped for, honestly. Maybe something sort of sweeping. </p><p>As if he simply had a sixth sense that she was in need of a quasi-rescue, and woke up to do that. Finding out she’d just interrupted his job is almost a little crushing. </p><p>In a friendship type of way, obviously. </p><p>“How does one become a teacher of gen-history at CUNY, then?”<br/><br/>“I’m a professor, technically.”<br/><br/>“Shit, that sounds very fancy.”<br/><br/>He grins. Wide and honest, and almost like he’s preening a bit under Emma’s less-than-genteel praise. She’s going to eat at least three samosas too. “It’s exceedingly fancy,” Killian agrees, “and care of the United States GI Bill, which—”<br/><br/>“—Didn’t stop after World War II?”<br/><br/>“You learn something new every day, love.”</p><p>Flicking her finger against his arm happens far too easily. As if this has been going on for months, or years and that’s probably not a sign. Emma’s still firmly entrenched in Ebenezer Scrooge territory. </p><p>Although, some soft and distinctly traitorous part of her mind is quick to point out, even Ebenezer Scrooge had a girlfriend. </p><p>God, if she gets visits from obnoxious ghosts any time soon, she’s going to be really annoyed. </p><p>“Is that why you knew sailors?”<br/><br/>“Past and present tense,” Killian amends, and the grin is still there but it also looks a little forced and Emma’s leaning forward. When exactly she decided to do that, she’s not entirely sure, and it obviously doesn’t matter when Killian’s hand flips. </p><p>Against hers. </p><p>He’s very warm. </p><p>Not a sign either, she’s positive. </p><p>A million more questions jump to the tip of her tongue, and Emma’s spent way too much time thinking about her tongue in these last six days. She doesn’t voice them. The questions, or the thoughts. Not when she can see the muscle in his clearly clenched jaw jumping with an almost alarming rhythm, and she’s always been very good at reading people. </p><p>It’s what’s made her such a good bail bonds...person. At least when she’s not nursing a high ankle sprain, and she hardly notices Killian’s hand shifting against her calf. To move that same ankle back up onto the pillows piled on top of her exceedingly wobbly coffee table. </p><p>Goosebumps explode everywhere. Possibly in her heart too, just for maximum absurdity. </p><p>“What’s the most random and historic Christmas fact you know?”</p><p>Narrowing his eyes makes it difficult to see whatever shade of blue they’ve evolved into, but Emma’s a bit more concerned with the inevitable pink on her cheeks and she desperately needs Killian to move his goddamn hand. To several other places. Across her body. Ebenezer Scrooge probably didn’t want to make out with his girlfriend this much. </p><p>Would have scandalized Bob Cratchit. </p><p>That wasn’t the right timeline for the story at all. </p><p>“Jingle Bells was written as a Thanksgiving song initially,” Killian says, “and was also the first song to be broadcast from space.”<br/><br/>“Very different aspects of this fact.”<br/><br/>“I like to bring a lot to the table.”<br/><br/>“The Thanksgiving one?”<br/><br/>“Any holiday,” he shrugs, expression not quite as lined and just a hint easier and Emma’s heart sputters. Like it’s flipping and flopping and possibly expanding, which is a totally different pop culture reference and she’s starting to lose track.<br/><br/>“I think Trans Siberian Orchestra is overrated.”<br/><br/>“Sounds suspiciously like an opinion.”<br/><br/>“That’s also absolutely right,” Emma promises, and she doesn’t get into specifics. For what is very obviously an opinion of the emotion-based variety, and Killian doesn’t press and they order enough Indian food for the entire apartment building. </p><p>She doesn’t know anyone else in the building. </p><p>That’s not as depressing as it once was. </p><hr/><p>“Screw Steve Jobs.”<br/><br/>“That’s the spirit, for sure.”<br/><br/>“What about the other one?”<br/><br/>“What other one?” Killian asks, not glancing away from the TV screen or the streaming options that limit their Christmas movie-viewing choices. “Are you just shouting names at me?”<br/><br/>Emma tuts, wrestling the remote from his hand. “There’s no shouting involved, I’m just expressing my frustration at whoever is in charge of Apple now, and Steve Jobs and his legacy and how it’s preventing me from watching A Charlie Brown Christmas.”<br/><br/>“I’m not sure how those things go together, but I can get behind hating on Apple if that’s actually what we’re doing.”<br/><br/>“It is. Do people actually pay for Apple Plus or TV, or whatever it’s called?”<br/><br/>“If the overall popularity of that soccer show is any indication. And that one with Reese Witherspoon got a bunch of Emmy nominations, I think.”<br/><br/>“Why do you know that?”<br/><br/>His shoulder bumps hers when he shrugs. They’re sitting very close. “I know everything, I thought that was obvious.”<br/><br/>“Can you get A Charlie Brown Christmas to play on my TV without giving any money to Steve Jobs?”<br/><br/>“Technically, I think it’d just be his estate getting the money.”<br/><br/>“Don’t get technical.”</p><p>He nods once, all confidence and charm and there’s got to be something else he could be doing with his time, but Emma doesn’t want him to be doing anything else and he pulls her laptop across the coffee table. She will never admit to counting the minutes it takes, or the exact way his eyes flit her direction more than once during those minutes, but then the laptop dings and Killian announces “done,” and asks if she “has an HDMI cable?”<br/><br/>She doesn’t. </p><p>It takes three minutes for him to jog back to his apartment. And back, hooking up several things that genuinely impress Emma, and the first few notes of the Vince Guaraldi Trio tug on whatever heartstrings she’s still in possession of. </p><p>He calls her out for mouthing along with the lines, laughter clinging to his voice and the crinkles she’s only just realized exist around his eyes and Emma shifts out of habit. When the Peanuts start dancing on stage, all too aware of Killian’s eyes. </p><p>And how they linger. On her, specifically. </p><p>She’s less prepared for his wrist to flip the way it does.<br/><br/>“May I?”</p><p>Thinking seems stupid in a situation like this, so Emma doesn’t think and the calluses on his fingers are enough to inspire a whole slew of other ideas, and they don’t really dance. Neither do the Peanuts, though — so, there’s something to be said for consistency and lower-body strength and they just kind of bob in time together, content to exist in each other’s space and there’s not that much space and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. </p><p>Neither are the tears that sting Emma’s eyes nearly twenty minutes later. She always cries during Linus’ speech. </p><hr/><p>Going stir crazy is inevitable and happens at precisely two forty-seven on the Tuesday before Christmas. The walls of Emma’s apartment suddenly feel much closer than they were at two forty-six, and she doesn’t bother grabbing her crutches.<br/><br/>Before huffing out a frustrated breath, hopping across the hall and effectively falling against Killian’s front door. She resists the very legitimate urge to knock with her head. </p><p>And it doesn’t matter anyway. </p><p>The door swings open, another pair of gym shorts that make Emma’s brain short-circuit just a bit and Killian’s hair is damp.<br/><br/>“Were you in the shower?”<br/><br/>“No,” he shakes his head. </p><p>Oh. <em> Oh </em> . So, she’ll probably just die in this hallway then. That will inevitably be preferable to the realization that he works out, and she kind of knew that already because there’s absolutely no way people just have biceps like that, but she also cannot deal with even the idea of him doing something as absurd as burpees in his apartment. Not when the walls were already doing that thing before.<br/><br/>“Should you be in the shower?”</p><p>Leaning against the door frame feels like cheating. On his part. Crossing his feet at the ankles is even worse. “Are you suggesting I should?” Killian drawls, and Emma’s come to realize he’s got this habit of only lifting the left side of his mouth when he’s trying to tease her.<br/><br/>It’s very effective. </p><p>“Maybe before we go out.”<br/><br/>“You want to go out? Where, exactly?”<br/><br/>“I don’t know,” Emma admits, “anywhere. Somewhere. That is not my kitchen, or like—the mailboxes downstairs.”<br/><br/>“I’ve gotten your mail.”</p><p>That’s true. He figured out which key it was on his own too, which shouldn’t have any lasting effect on Emma’s pulse at all. “Whatever,” she grumbles, “that’s not the point.”<br/><br/>“What is, then?”<br/><br/>“I want fresh air and—”<br/><br/>“—Where are your crutches?”<br/><br/>“In my apartment.”<br/><br/>“Did you hop over here?” </p><p>Nodding, she’s not entirely prepared for the force of his laugh or the hand that lands on her hip as easily as if there are magnets there. “You’re going to have the most impressive calf muscles of any bail bonds person in the greater Tri-State area.”<br/><br/>“Flatter me some more when we’re outside, please.”<br/><br/>“I should probably shower first.” Emma hums, biting her tongue until she can taste blood because suggesting anything involving Killian and water and a distinct lack of clothing is only going to get her another smirk she cannot possibly be expected to deal with. He smirks all the same. So, the world hates her apparently. Waving an arm behind him, Killian ushers Emma into the apartment like it’s not the first time she’s hopping inside. “Make yourself at home,” he says, already halfway down a hallway that must lead to the bathroom because that’s what her hallway does and the layout is almost identical. “There’s coffee too.”<br/><br/>“Do you drink coffee while you work out?”<br/><br/>His eyes goddamn sparkle. “Sit down, Swan. Then we’ll figure out where else you can hop.”</p><p>He’s gone before she can even consider an appropriately sarcastic response, leaving her balanced between his living room and kitchen and there are very soft-looking blankets draped over the back of his couch. Music plays softly from a nearby speaker, not quite festive, because it’s 90s rap and Emma can’t decide which part of this is the most endearing. </p><p>Probably the frames. </p><p>Lining nearly every flat surface of the multiple bookcases he has, smiling faces gaze back at Emma from what looks like a dozen different places, and several faces repeat themselves. A woman with soft brown hair and a smile that makes it clear how nice she inevitably is, her shoulders are often covered by another man’s arm and occasionally that man’s in uniform. </p><p>She has to hop to the next frame, another uniform, although it has more medals, and this man’s eyes are familiar. Not blue, but the glint in them is unmistakable. Especially when he’s standing next to Killian. </p><p>Their smiles make something ache in the very center of Emma, the kind of deja vu she doesn’t want to understand. The man’s only in a few of the pictures. He looks happy in all of them. </p><p>Overjoyed, occasionally. </p><p>The water in the bathroom turns off. </p><p>And Emma only just manages to throw herself into the corner of the couch before Killian’s back in the living room, a towel pressed to even more damp hair. “You ok?” he asks, a very symmetrical question she can’t answer. </p><p>With the wad of emotion currently taking root in the middle of her throat. </p><p>Piecing things together is one of her better skills, after all. </p><p>“Fine, fine,” she stammers, “can we go?”<br/><br/>“Have you decided where you’re going to hobble?”<br/><br/>“Ah, that’s mean.”<br/><br/>“Am I going to have to carry you down the stairs?”<br/><br/>“Don’t be a dick.”<br/><br/>He smirks. The bastard. And doesn’t really carry her down the stairs, per se — even if there’s more leaning involved than Emma would like, but that also means she gets to take full advantage of just how warm he is, and she’s starting to wonder if Killian retains heat solely for her benefit. It’s a very dangerous thought. </p><p>This can’t last forever. Not with modern medicine the way it is, and she’s been taking the medicine and the swelling has gone way down and—</p><p>Emma gasps when she puts more weight on her ankle than she’s entirely prepared for. Spinning on the spot, Killian’s center of gravity must be better than hers and that probably has something to do with sea legs, and waves, and his hands are back on her hips. </p><p>She’d very much like them to stay there. </p><p>First kisses aren’t supposed to happen in the middle of the sidewalk. </p><p>Outside a Duane Reade.  </p><p>If she doesn’t kiss him soon, she might scream. </p><p>“C’mon,” Killian says, tilting his head towards the automatic doors and this wasn’t quite what Emma had planned. She had no plan, but it did not involve Duane Reade carpet or the holiday aisle, and Killian’s hands don’t move. They direct her. Towards that aisle, and the gingerbread houses on its shelves and he grabs one that has deluxe in the name. </p><p>“Makes it fancier,” he explains, presumably when he notices the overall height of Emma’s eyebrows. She doesn’t argue. Inflating his ego anymore isn’t part of her unplanned plan, either. </p><p>And there’s not really much of a discussion, but they somehow end up back at his apartment, pieces of gingerbread strewn across his kitchen counter while he changes the music, and—</p><p>Emma tosses a sugar plum in the air.<br/><br/>So she can catch it with her mouth.<br/><br/>“Color me impressed,” Killian says, and it’s her imagination. There’s no allusion. Nothing passably secret or unspoken in those words, and Emma refuses to let herself consider the possibility. Not with Bing Crosby in the background. </p><p>He was kind of a jerk in real life. </p><p>“Although,” he adds, “you’re using up all our decoration.”<br/><br/>“They give you so many sugar plums! Who would need this many?”</p><p>“Mr. and Mrs. Gingerbread.”<br/><br/>“I’m sorry, what?”</p><p>“Mr. and Mrs. Gingerbread,” Killian repeats, “who live in this deluxe, undeniably fancy gingerbread house.”</p><p>“Why would their last name be Gingerbread when that’s what their house is called? It’s like someone being named—”<br/><br/>“—Wood?”</p><p>Emma sneers. “I’ll throw sugar plums at your face.”<br/><br/>“Then we’ll really run out, and the peppermint swirls aren’t as decorative.”<br/><br/>“Because peppermint is the inferior Christmas flavor,” Emma announces. “Tastes like you’re eating toothpaste, also they don’t make houses out of wood anymore. Learn about the industrial revolution, please.”<br/><br/>He’s already started positioning gingerbread walls. “Mr. and Mrs. Gingerbread met by happenstance. Had passed each other in the Sugar Forest before, but—”<br/><br/>“—These are absolutely horrendous names.”<br/><br/>“You’re ruining the flow of the story, love.” Emma mimes zipping her mouth shut. “Anyway, they’d noticed each other before, but hadn’t ever spoken, until fate and festivity intervened, and they realized they had more in common than they expected and got along very well, and eventually they got married and lived happily ever after.”<br/><br/>“Just like that?”</p><p>Her voice likely does not crack the way she imagines it does. That would be impossible. It’s because of the sugar plum, and all that extra sugar. Caking the inside of Emma’s throat, or something and that’s a kind of disgusting idea, but Killian’s staring at her with enough intensity that her cheeks are starting to heat on their own and it’s a crime she hasn’t gotten her fingers in his hair yet. </p><p>“Just like that,” Killian echoes. </p><p>He’s moving. Emma’s positive he’s moving. Maybe that’s her. Or the entire goddamn Universe. Flying off kilter and possibly right into the sun and it’s so stupid when she opens her mouth. </p><p>“How’d they get engaged?”<br/><br/>The left side of his mouth tugs up. “They went ice skating.”<br/><br/>“Did that not dissolve their legs?”<br/><br/>“It was magic ice.”<br/><br/>“Oh, right, right, yeah of course.”<br/><br/>Definitely getting closer. “And the future Mrs. Gingerbread had fallen over. Wasn’t used to the skates, which Mr. Gingerbread found oddly enchanting, and while she was sitting there on the ice, cursing every one of Santa’s elves, he bent down and said, ‘This is probably a bad time, but marry me?’”</p><p>“What’d she say?”<br/><br/>“She swatted at the sugar plums on his chest, but she was also swooning a bit and—”<br/><br/>“—Losing frosting from sitting on the ice?”<br/><br/>“That’s not how frosting works at all.”<br/><br/>“They don’t give you much here,” Emma says, not a perfect change of course, but she wasn’t the sailor in this relationship and she's so stupid it's painful. “Can you make more?”<br/><br/>Killian nods. It makes his hair move. And Emma’s pulse trip over itself. “Absolutely.”<br/><br/>They make several batches of frosting, because deluxe gingerbread houses are apparently thicker than usual and require more, and at least half of it gets wasted when Emma keeps eating it. And swiping some across the bridge of Killian’s nose. </p><p>Neither one of them mention Mr. or Mrs. Gingerbread again. </p><p>Their house turns out very nice, though.</p><hr/><p>She blames the medication. </p><p>For telling him about the one high school she went to in Minnesota where they decorated their lockers for spirit week, and how the foster house she’d been living in gave her exactly one roll of dollar store wrapping paper and a box of ancient tinsel, and Killian barely flinches at the words <em> foster home </em> in that particular order. </p><p>He’s a rapt audience, like this is fascinating information, and not decidedly Scrooge-like, and “we didn’t have that at my high school,” he tells her. Which just about seals the deal, as it were. </p><p>Emma nearly kills herself more than once, burrowing through her closet and calling in favors from Ruby who only furrows her brows slightly when she shows up on a Thursday morning with a bag of Christmas decorations that—</p><p>“What are we doing, exactly?”<br/><br/>“Decorating,” Emma says, and to her credit Ruby doesn’t object. Or kick on Killian’s door. Which is in fact, what they’re decorating. Lining the frame with garland, and lights that require an extension cord and are probably breaking their lease somehow, but he doesn’t wake up and no one tells them to stop, and the whole thing turns out pretty fantastic.<br/><br/>If Emma does say so herself. </p><p>They opt not to hang ornaments off the door. For fear that they’ll shatter. But there are window clings taped to the imitation wood now, in addition to the garland, and Emma can’t imagine where Ruby found tinsel, but it’s appropriately festive and she uses her crutch to knock. </p><p>Killian only needs five seconds to answer. </p><p>Blinking at the scene in front of him — and an almost overjoyed-looking Ruby, who still mercifully hasn’t expressed the opinions Emma can practically hear vibrating around her skull, but then Killian’s turning and exhaling softly and the press of his lips to Emma’s cheek is jarring and sudden and absolutely perfect. </p><p>“You’re blushing,” Ruby drawls, soft enough that it can’t be heard over Killian’s praise of what may be lower Manhattan’s most obnoxiously decorated door. </p><p>Emma’s crutch collides with her shin. </p><p>“Thank you, love,” Killian says. Sincerity colors every letter, that particular shade of blue like the sky and the ocean and it’s not exactly a holiday color, but it might be Emma’s favorite color now and her mouth is very dry. </p><p>“That should be the other way around,” she objects, “for everything you’ve done and—”<br/><br/>“I wanted to.”<br/><br/>Ruby’s still standing there. With that specific wolf-like smile on her face.<br/><br/>“Well,” she proclaims, “I’m going to go, eventually we’ll get officially introduced across-the-hall guy who’s very cute and—” The tips of Killian’s ears go red. More festive. “Take care of Emma on Christmas, will you?”</p><p>She leaves almost as soon as the question’s out of her mouth, Killian staring expectantly at Emma because she hadn’t admitted to the inevitable singularity of her Christmas in three days, but she just kind of figured he’d have other things to do and she didn’t want to be depressing. </p><p>They’d progressed past depressing by now. </p><p>And even the thought of going back to Storybrooke made her ankle ache. </p><p>Because well...what if he didn’t have actually anything else to do? What if he was home alone too? What if she left and there wasn’t anyone here and—no, Emma’s not doing that. She hasn't asked. She’s willing to risk the answer. </p><p>Or admit it to anything. At least not completely. </p><p>“You’re not going home for Christmas?” Killian asks lightly, but Emma can hear the rest. She shakes her head.<br/><br/>“Ruby wants me to, and I’m friends with her friends, but—” Her shoulders don’t move very easily on that shrug. “My ankles still kind of messed up, and they’ve got families and traditions and it always feels like I’m—”<br/><br/>“—Overstepping?”<br/><br/>“Something like that, yeah.”<br/><br/>“You want to order Chinese food on Christmas Eve or Thai?”<br/><br/>“Both?”<br/><br/>Killian beams. Emma’s cheek is on fire, she’s positive. “Deal.”</p><hr/><p>“Lift with your legs!”<br/><br/>“Would you like to come down here and help?”<br/><br/>“Not really, no,” Emma laughs, leaning over the railing at the top of the second-floor landing, and the Christmas tree guy at the end of the block had been understandably concerned that they weren’t going to get the tree back to their apartment in one piece. </p><p>Neither one of them mentioned that they live in different apartments. And aren’t a couple. Or dating. Whatever, Emma’s too worried about Killian straining something to care about other adjectives. </p><p>“Invalid,” he calls back. Her smile’s going to stretch her face muscles. </p><p>“Put those arm muscles to good use!”<br/><br/>“Are you ogling me, Swan?”<br/><br/>“You show them off.”<br/><br/>“Little of column A, little of column B.”</p><p>She clicks her tongue, the smile obvious in his voice even when there’s a tree blocking his face and they put the tree in her apartment. After getting a blanket out of Killian’s closet to put underneath it, and the guy had taken pity on them earlier, adding in the star as part of the tree cost because it was Christmas Eve and no one else was buying trees and Emma honestly does not mean to fall asleep with her head on Killian’s shoulder. </p><hr/><p>Waking with a start, Emma has to blink. More than once. To make sure she’s not still dreaming, but if she were there’d still be a shoulder under her cheek and preferably an arm around her waist, or maybe less clothing, and none of that is happening, so this has to be real. </p><p>“Are you ok? </p><p>Her voice doesn’t entirely sound like hers — still tinged with sleep and Emma’s only marginally worried there’s bits of tinsel in her hair, because obviously she’d had an extra box of tinsel from the door decorating and they’d thrown that, quite literally, at the tree. The one that almost appears to be shimmering in the bit of moonlight creeping through her curtains, Killian staring out the window at the—</p><p>“Is it thundering out?”</p><p>He nods without glancing at her. “Happens sometimes. Not often in the winter, but—” Another clap echoes around them, and that must have been what woke Emma up. Not the lack of shoulder, or her recently-acquired ability to read the exact angle of Killian’s shoulders and what that means and he flinches. </p><p>“Hey,” Emma says, almost able to walk towards him without wincing, “what’s going on?”</p><p>“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”<br/><br/>“That’s not a big deal, what’s happening with your shoulders?”</p><p>Turning slower than any human should be able to, Killian levels Emma with an incredulous stare. She juts her chin out. In something akin to almost romantic defiance. “Staring at my arms, now my shoulders. You’ll give a man a complex.”<br/><br/>“Stop being an idiot, then.”<br/><br/>“Huh.”<br/><br/>Lightning joins the fray, snow swirling just outside that window and Emma’s not sure she’s ever been so grateful to be inside. Warm and maybe not entirely content, at least not yet, but definitely safe and even more happy, all of which seems as good a reason as any for everything that happens next. </p><p>“What happened to your brother?”<br/><br/>Killian’s eyes widen, surprise mixing with something that’s almost dangerously close to anger. Only to disappear just as quickly, morphing into what Emma’s sleep-addled brain can only describe as disappointment. “He’s dead.”</p><p>“And?”<br/><br/>“That’s usually the end of things.”</p><p>“Nuh uh,” Emma objects, which isn’t the worst thing she’s done, but Killian flinches again when she rests a hand on his tension-filled shoulder.<br/><br/>“It’s depressing.”<br/><br/>“Why’d you wake up?”<br/><br/>He tells her. Only after forcing her back onto the couch, because “your ankle’s going to start swelling up again, Swan,” but then the story is as depressing as advertised, with storms and ships and the dead brother who has since achieved hero status in Killian’s brain. And the tears clouding his eyes don’t ever actually fall—which is probably for the best, because Emma isn’t convinced she’d be able to do anything except kiss them away, but he doesn’t look away from her either, and at some point her fingers start tracing over the blunt edge of his left arm. </p><p>He doesn’t move. </p><p>Doesn’t tell her to stop, or pull away. Just lets her trace over scars that are equal parts metaphorical and literal, and that’s enough. To help ease the cracks in her, swallowing once and meeting his depressing with equally atrocious, and to Killian’s credit there’s no interruption. </p><p>Not through foster home explanations, or the whole thing with Neal, meeting Mary Margaret and Ruby, and how it’s never felt like that life could be totally Emma’s, even when she wants it so much she’s certain it’ll explode out of her. </p><p>Minutes turn into hours and evolve into the middle of the night, and the snow doesn’t stop and the thunder doesn’t stop and there’s enough light lingering around them that Emma’s able to notice the flickers of blue in Killian’s eyes and the quirk of his lips and—</p><p>It was about time, honestly. </p><p>Her fingers curl into his t-shirt, all but yanking him closer because not kissing him is the dumbest thing she could possibly do right now. And she’s not dumb. So, that’s her only option, really. </p><p>And it takes him a second to respond. </p><p>Like he hasn’t also been counting down to this one, exact moment. It’s that moment that almost gives Emma pause, ancient worries rising up in the back of her throat and threatening to spill out her mouth, but then Killian’s mouth is moving and there’s more tongue than she’s entirely prepared for and fingers pushed into her hair, and she genuinely has no idea how she ends up in his lap. </p><p>Not that she’s complaining. </p><p>Makes it easier to find a rhythm, anyway. Rocking against each other with a sudden burst of friction that’s somehow not nearly enough, roaming hands and lips that trail across the side of Emma’s neck and underneath her chin, and it takes all her willpower not to groan too loudly when Killian laughs. </p><p>As soon as he notices the goosebumps on her skin. </p><p>“A complex,” he mutters, but it sounds like a compliment and something close to a promise and Emma’s rolling her hips before she can think of all the reasons she shouldn’t. </p><p>The groan she gets sends her flying. Metaphorically, literally. Some other adverb that doesn’t matter when there’s an arm around her waist and her legs wrap around Killian on instinct. </p><p>They don’t stumble once — although Emma’s feet never touch the ground, so she’s not sure she should be part of the equation, and her laugh bubbles out of her as soon as her back bounces against her bed. </p><p>Strictly speaking, the rest is a bit of a blur. Clothes are thrown with abandon, tossed this way and that, and Emma’s teeth find her lower lip when Killian pulls his shirt off, but then his eyes noticeably widen as soon as her leggings are gone and that’s a rather large boon to her confidence. And his hair is somehow softer than she expected it to be. </p><p>They’re also very good at kissing. </p><p>She considers both things very important. </p><p>And Emma’s got no idea what time it is by the time she’s flopped back to her side of the bed, only that there was no discussion about sides and that leaves her feeling warmer and safer and—</p><p>“Don’t leave, ok?”<br/><br/>Killian flips his head. To smile at her. Like he could—no, not yet. They’ll get to that eventually, maybe. “I don’t really want to.”<br/><br/>“Good, thunder kind of freaks me out anyway.”<br/><br/>Sheets twist underneath them when he inches closer, and for half a second Emma wonders if he’s going to kiss her again, eyes already fluttering in anticipation. He does, just not where she expects. Not her lips. Everywhere else. The bridge of her nose, either one of her cheekbones and the edges of her eyes, across her brows and the tiny wrinkles in her forehead, each one feeling as if it stamps something onto her soul and her heart and she’s such a goddamn sap at whatever time it might be.</p><p>“I like you,” he whispers.<br/><br/>“Yeah?”<br/><br/>“Yeah.<br/><br/>“Good.”</p><hr/><p>Snow covers the street when Emma blinks awake on Christmas morning, the scene looking like some idyllic version of a city that only a few weeks earlier left her with an abnormally large ankle. Now she can’t feel much except how much she loves this place, and this slightly drafty apartment and—</p><p>The noticeably empty right side of her bed. </p><p>Huh. </p><p>Flopping onto her back, Emma tries very hard not to let her mind wander, but her mind is already in the hallway and there’s talking in the hallway. The loud kind, not totally annoyed, but sounding genuinely confused and that cannot be the first time Killian has grumbled “this is not a big deal” in that exact tone.</p><p>Not thinking is really Emma’s greatest talent. </p><p>She doesn’t bother putting on shoes before she opens her front door, hair still a tangled mess and there may very well be hickeys on her neck if the look on the face of the guy standing outside Killian’s apartment is any indication. </p><p>“Oh,” the woman breathes, and there are apparently two people in the hallway. Emma’s admittedly staring pretty intently at Killian. </p><p>Who is not wearing anything on his feet either, and the whole thing is symmetrical and confusing and it takes her way too long to recognize the hallway people. From the frames. Ones that also included uniforms and wide smiles and the guy sticks his hand out like this isn’t the weirdest thing in the history of New York City. </p><p>“Will Scarlet,” he says, “and this is my fiancée, Belle. You must be the ankle girl.”<br/><br/>Killian pinches the bridge of his nose. </p><p>“He did tell us your name,” Belle adds, and Emma’s breathing very loudly. Out of her mouth. Which is hanging open. </p><p>She can’t believe she’s not wearing socks. </p><p>“Were you stalking me?” she asks Killian, who immediately flushes and grits his teeth and it would be very easy to fall in love with him. Potential felonies not withstanding. </p><p>“No, no, no, that’s not what’s happening here.”<br/><br/>“And what is happening?”<br/><br/>“We’re inviting you both to Christmas,” Belle explains, “because Killian said he couldn’t come if you were here and—”<br/><br/>“—You’re certainly here, aren’t you?” Will adds. Killian punches his arm. </p><p>Emma’s frozen. Stuck, and still breathing abnormally, eyes like pinballs as they try to figure out who exactly she should be glaring at, but none of the emotions currently churning in between her ribs resemble anger. Confusion, definitely. Possible attraction to the exact way Killian squeezes one of his eyes shut. But nothing even in the realm of frustration. </p><p>Huh, again. </p><p>“Explain what’s going on,” she demands. Both Belle and Killian’s arms move when Will opens his mouth, a soft grunt of pain that should not be as gratifying to hear from a stranger. </p><p>“Can you walk?” Killian asks. </p><p>“Are you kidding me?”<br/><br/>“No, we kind of forgot about the medicine last night, so—” Hands flying to her mouth, Belle barely manages to contain her response, and Will doesn’t seem to bother, noise bouncing off the hallway and its ugly carpet and Killian’s hand finds the small of Emma’s back when they move. Away from his door and her door and he hisses in a breath through his teeth. “There’s no stalking involved, I swear.”<br/><br/>“What is it, then?”<br/><br/>“Pining, maybe?”<br/><br/>“Pining?” Emma echoes, and the noise Will makes is way closer to a guffaw now. </p><p>Killian grimaces. “Not—I mean, not in a totally creepy way. I just...I wasn’t kidding about Ruby being very loud when she kicks on your door. So I’d seen you, and heard like...of you and—” Flustered is admittedly a good look on him. They all are, but Emma hasn’t had any coffee yet and there’s a peanut gallery watching this entire conversation, which is more accidental symmetry and Killian visibly exhales when her hand finds his chest. Still questionably solid. “Anyway, uh—you know how you’re aware of people and think they’re good looking?”<br/><br/>“You think I’m good looking?”<br/><br/>“Did I not make that obvious enough yet? That’s disappointing.”<br/><br/>It’s her turn to blush apparently, ducking her gaze to stare at her bare feet so she doesn’t do something ridiculous like jump him. Emma’s ankle isn’t capable of doing that yet.<br/><br/>“And then I heard you cursing Poseidon or whatever Gods you were beseeching that night—”<br/><br/>“Ok, Poseidon was not involved,” Emma argues. </p><p>Killian’s thumb taps the side of her jaw. She doesn’t snap her teeth. Points. Christmas points, even. “So I opened the door, and found you there. Not being attacked, like I was legitimately worried about, and it all just—”<br/><br/>“—Happened?”<br/><br/>“Kind of. You kept inviting me inside.”<br/><br/>“Well as far as I know you’re not a vampire, so that wasn’t a requirement to come inside, but—”<br/><br/>“—I wasn’t just going to barrel into your apartment, Swan.”<br/><br/>“No, no, I know,” she promises, waving her hands because she’s suddenly kind of flustered and she never responded last night and she’d like to respond with some emotions, but that’s never really been her thing, so all Emma can do is mumble, “most people I know are jerks, not including Ruby or Mary Margaret, who you don’t know, but—” Killian catches both her wrists in one hand. It’s patently absurd. “That’s not the point.”<br/><br/>“What’s the point?”<br/><br/>“You’re not.”<br/><br/>“A jerk?”<br/><br/>“No,” Emma says, trying very hard to smile without crying and it doesn’t really work. Tears land on her cheeks, throat apparently collapsing, and only one of those things seems like the end of the world. Until there are lips on her cheek again, following a pattern that can’t possibly be the one he traced last night. </p><p>Or this morning, she supposes. </p><p>That’s not the point, either. </p><p>“Why?”<br/><br/>“Why?” Killian repeats softly. “Because you’re very easy to like.”<br/><br/>“That’s not true, at all. I’m—prickly, and angry and I hate Bill de Blasio.”<br/><br/>“Everyone does, that doesn’t make you special.”</p><p>Exhaling the way she does only ensures she sags against Killian’s chest, and he doesn’t mind all that much. If the way he smirks at her is any indication. “I didn’t want to go to Mary Margaret and David’s for a gazillion reasons, but it wasn’t just my ankle and I—” Her fingers tighten in his shirt. That helps, honestly. Makes her a bit braver and bit surer and kissing him once is more than enough to make Emma’s lungs function normally. “I like you too,” she says, loud enough that she kind of sounds like she’s announcing it and she supposes she almost is. “With or without all the Christmas stuff, but the Christmas stuff was really fun.”<br/><br/>“That’s the first time I’ve cared about Christmas in a very long time.”</p><p>“Rude,” Will shouts, but Killian’s eyes don’t leave Emma and at some point these imaginary Christmas points became very important to her internal dialogue. He’s got, like, forty billion now.</p><p>At least. </p><p>“I would have wallowed,” Emma admits, “sat on the couch and hated on everything festive, but...well, I kept calling you good looking in my head.”<br/><br/>“When? Before the cursing?”<br/><br/>“Yeah, but especially during the cursing and like...now. Were you going to blow off your friends to spend Christmas Day with me?”<br/><br/>“Yes,” he says, easy as anything and that’s absolutely, one-hundred percent a sign. One Emma is very willing to read. For as long as she possibly can.<br/><br/>“Because he’s only a jerk to us,” Will yells. “You can come too, Emma. We weren’t going to leave you here by your lonesome!”<br/><br/>“Except we wouldn’t call it that,” Belle adds, “because this isn’t a Dickenson’ian novel.”<br/><br/>“She’s a librarian,” Killian explains when Emma glances questioningly at him, and his fingers are very close to the hem of her shirt. </p><p>“Oh yeah, yeah, that makes sense. I should probably shower before we go though.”<br/><br/>Eyebrows jumping and smirk settling onto the mouth Emma is totally staring at makes it all but impossible to do anything except ignore the slight twinge in her ankle when she pushes up on her toes and kisses the ever-living daylights out of the good looking guy she hopes is her boyfriend now. They’ll get to that, eventually. </p><p>“What are you doing on New Year’s Eve?” she asks, not bothering to move away from him even as Will and Belle jeer from the other end of the hall. </p><p>“Whatever you want, Swan,” Killian says. They probably lose some Christmas-type points when he flips off his friends. </p><hr/><p>They don’t go out for New Year’s Eve. </p><p>It’s snowing again, and while Emma's ankle is the right color, it’s easier to claim sitting on the couch is a relationship-tradition when they’re both very eager to use that particular qualifier, and it’s more fun to make out that way. They'll go ice skating eventually.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Couples That We Know</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Today's festive prompt comes from @the-girl-in-the-band-tshirt and is: ""We've been celebrating our wedding anniversary on the wrong day for the past nine years." Which is...almost what I wrote. As always, I think it's real swell you guys are clicking things and reading things and I would like to know what your favorite Christmas movie is. Come hang out on <a href="http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a> if you're down.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“You know, for this to work, you’ve got to actually stop staring at her. At least without quite so much palpable longing.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Opening his mouth, Killian has every intention of announcing how little he’s staring, but that would be a rather awful lie and it’s probably wrong to lie at Christmas. Or at least two and a half weeks before. Plus, Mary Margaret’s face makes even the thought of saying whatever he hadn’t entirely come up with impossible. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You going to give me detention?”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“I’m seriously considering it.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
He sighs. Dramatically. Nearly lets his chin slump towards his chest, which would add more than a fair share of melo to that aforementioned drama, and—“You think this is a dumb idea?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Mary Margaret’s eyes widen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her lips practically disappear when she pushes them together that way, and Killian has to bite the side of his tongue so he doesn’t make some sort of teacher-based quip again. He really cannot afford to get sent to detention. Metaphorical, or otherwise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s no possible way for me to tell you, again, how dumb this idea is,” Mary Margaret says, and that might be the most scathing string of words he’s ever heard out of her. Telling Emma suddenly becomes something of a necessity, and that’s a problem. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The crux of their problem, really. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eyes flitting up, Killian ignores the wholly out-of-character sound Mary Margaret lets out when his gaze darts across the room and lingers on hair that’s looking shinier than usual, as if it’s trying to distract him and overwhelm him, and both things happening simultaneously is almost too much for his brain to deal with. When he’s had two glasses of wine, already. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not the best wine, actually. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Killian’s not surprised. Pendragon Publishing is not especially well known for its money-spending efforts, and the annual holiday party is no different. Funded by some half-hearted party committee, that is very likely controlled by just one person, that same person does not appear to have an eye for decorating. If the copious amount of mistletoe hanging everywhere is any indication. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And the whole thing exists to drive Killian insane. Both the mistletoe, and the party. Or so he will argue. When Mary Margaret inevitably points out what a dumb idea this is, again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s totally going to say it again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s going to work,” Killian mutters, but it sounds inherently unenthusiastic, and Mary Margaret’s eyes cannot widen anymore. They’ll fall out. Which will cause a scene, he imagines. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And they’re trying to avoid that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or, well—avoid breaking the rules, technically. They don’t want to do that. Because Pendragon might host shitty holiday parties, but it’s one of the most well-known agencies in the Tri-State area, and both Killian and Emma like their jobs. They like each other too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Deciding to date wasn’t really part of the plan. But she makes him smile, and he considers the ability to make her consistently laugh one of his better talents, and they’re really good at kissing each other. Which is something they’ve been doing for far longer than anyone realizes. Months, actually. With post-work dinners, and weekends spent together, and Killian has started to find it harder and harder to leave her apartment in the morning, because he keeps staying at her apartment all night, and not proclaiming several rather life-altering strings of words is becoming more and more difficult. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which brings them right back to the crux of the problem. Pendragon’s holiday party, and its presumably boxed wine, and dating other employees isn’t explicitly mentioned in the employee handbook, but it’s very likely frowned upon and showing up here together wasn’t a feasible option. No matter how much he wanted it to be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Showing with other people, though. That made sense. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It made—sense adjacent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did I tell you that you look nice?”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Tilting her head, Mary Margaret’s gaze turns appraising and she wasn’t particularly pleased about having to take her ring off. It hangs on a chain that’s only occasionally fallen over the front of her dress, and David thought the whole thing was hysterical. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sent “Mary Margaret 101” facts to Killian all week. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to actually woo me,” Mary Margaret counters, but there’s a bit of color on her cheeks that doesn’t have anything to do with the heat in this rented loft. It’s very warm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No woo’ing, just facts. Should that dress look familiar, though?”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Depends on how often you’re rummaging around the back corner of Emma’s closet.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Not that often, but—”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Mary Margaret nods before he can get the rest of the question out, smiling over the top of her glass. Filled nearly to the brim with wine that may actually be capable of eroding paint. It’s so bad. That’s probably not a metaphor for anything. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve really got to stop staring, it makes you look like a crazy person,” she adds, and to prove how capable he is of following direction Killian’s does the exact opposite. Back towards his girlfriend, and there wasn’t really a ton of planning before they dove into the deep end of this totally legitimate, absolutely will not blow up in their face plan. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will’s arm is slung over Emma’s shoulders. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Can’t clench your jaw like that, either,” Mary Margaret mutters. Keeping the laugh out of her voice is seemingly impossible. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And rolling his whole head is juvenile, but Killian’s starting to feel a little drunk. Without any of the fun benefits. His head hurts. “Should have come up with a list.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“I could if you want.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“I do not, no.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Mary Margaret’s smile is a hint more honest, that time. It really is a nice dress. “That’s what I figured,” she says, tugging on his tie familiarly. “But you look like you’re going to challenge your own best friend to a duel.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Swords are a requirement for that, aren’t they?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Alexander Hamilton.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Excuse me?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Dueled with pistols, so—”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“—Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Snickering, Mary Margaret bumps her hip with his and there are at least ten unopened texts from David on Killian’s phone. Demanding update for what he was regularly referring to </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Great Idiot Romance of 2020</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Although, he never mentioned that in front of Emma. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Who very likely would have won that duel, should it have occurred. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” Mary Margaret sighs, like she hasn’t already agreed to a whole night of this, “we should probably mingle, if we’re going to make this look legit.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Say legit again, please.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
She sticks her tongue out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not a very good argument, Ms. Blanchard,” he chuckles, shifting his hand to the small of her back and he supposes he should eat something. To sop up all the wine. Her expression doesn’t change. Might get more scowl-like, if anything. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And there’s likely no reason for Emma’s neck to twist the way it does, except something else vaguely melodramatic that Killian cannot think about for the next four hours, but she does and he stands up a little straighter. Presumably, at least. Mary Margaret’s reproachful tongue click is very loud. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then Emma’s eyes are widening as well, and her lips are slightly twisted and Killian does a God awful job of winking at her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He swears he can hear laugh — across the whole loft. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Four hours at this stupid thing, max. Then he’s going to make out with his girlfriend. For possibly four hours straight. Which he imagines is a record of some sort. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Food,” Mary Margaret declares, fingers back on his tie and she makes him eat four bacon-covered </span>
  <em>
    <span>somethings </span>
  </em>
  <span>before they leave the table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To mingle. As is required by polite society and Mary Margaret Blanchard soon-to-be Nolan, and Killian quickly loses track of the number of people they smile at and the few others they nod in the general direction of, and he really should have been better prepared </span>
  <em>
    <span>soon-to-be</span>
  </em>
  <span> to evolve into a problem. He’s not. And Aurora’s gasp catches him off guard.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” she cries, hands flying to her cheeks in the middle of a group of editors congregated by the floor-to-ceiling windows, and at least that’s kind of picturesque. “I didn’t know you were engaged, Killian!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Every one of his muscles tenses. Freezes, making Killian’s ability to stay upright all the more impressive, and it’s nothing except instinct when his gaze practically flies towards Emma. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Who immediately tugs her lips behind her teeth, Will’s eyes widening to a size that would be comical in any other situation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mary Margaret’s jaw works — trying to find an excuse, or an explanation, but there’s not any of those things and Killian finds himself nodding again. “Yeah, yeah,” he stammers, “that’s, uh—we are totally engaged.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Selling it,” Mary Margaret murmurs through clenched teeth, and he considers it an exceptionally large miracle that he doesn’t point that out. She’s not doing a good job of playing her role now, either. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aurora doesn’t notice. Another miracle. ‘Tis the season, or whatever.<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“So,” she presses, “have you set a date or—”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Strictly speaking, biology was never one of Killian’s better school subjects, but he’s starting to wonder just how much stress the muscles in his neck can continue to cope with, and he’s all too aware of how much he’s beginning to resemble a bobblehead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’re, uh—” Licking his lips doesn’t help their overall state, floundering under the expectant stare of half a dozen coworkers who are now heavily invested in a wholly fake relationship, and Mary Margaret’s hand threatens to crack several of his knuckles. When she laces her fingers through his. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thinking next winter,” she says, sounding more honest than anything else they’ve told these people. “City’s basically all decorated for us, already, you know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aurora does know, it seems. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her nod isn’t as erratic as Killian’s, is far more enthusiastic — complete with wide eyes that practically announce her interest, and the hammering of his heart against his ribcage makes it difficult to hear the footsteps that are moving towards them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will looks far too entertained. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emma’s lips are still missing in action.<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Couldn’t help but overhear,” Will drawls, and the duel is starting to sound very appealing, “sounds like congratulations are in order.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
He’s going to kill him. Killian’s going to let go of Mary Margaret’s impressively tight grip, and he’s going to use both of his hands to strangle his best friend. Or at least ensure that he’s deprived of enough oxygen that he doesn’t continue talking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He will enjoy it. Thoroughly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lifting her eyebrows when neither Mary Margaret nor Killian respond to this supposed stranger’s proclamation, Emma’s exhale is inappropriately loud. Rife with guilt, and an emotion Killian can’t quite name because being jealous of </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> best friend’s engagement to someone else is as absurd as anything they’ve done tonight, but it’s also kind of nice and—</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Aurora, this is Will,” Emma introduces, and he’s actually got the gall to smirk in Killian’s direction. Before thrusting his hand forward, smiling a bit more good-naturedly at Aurora, who only looks slightly confused. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s fair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All of this is flying off the rails, and Killian briefly considers how much of a scene it would cause if he barreled into the kitchen demanding better alcohol choices. It’s probably not worth it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nice to meet you,” Aurora says, like an actual human. With normal, human thought processes and presumably fewer holiday-based lies to deal with. “We were just talking about Killian and Mary Margaret’s wedding.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blood floods his mouth, and Killian’s only slightly worried about running out of tongue to bite before the night is over. Mary Margaret’s fingers somehow tighten even more, threatening the blood flow to his entire right hand, and Emma is very interested in the state of her shoes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s absolutely what it sounded like,” Will grins, “when’s the happy day?”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Glaring without making it obvious is actually difficult. Killian widens his eyes, but that only makes the width of Will’s mouth increase — like some literary cat, and Emma’s eyes keep closing for prolonged periods of time. Like at least several seconds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Next winter,” Killian bites out, “we’re getting married next winter.”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Decided on a location, yet? Gotta get that stuff in early from what I’ve heard.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Have you just?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will nods, shoulders shifting ever so slightly. Like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. It’s not entirely working. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe they should apologize to Aurora. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh yeah, yeah,” Will says, “wedding industry’s cutthroat like that. Plan months in advance, and even then you might not get your first choice.”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“That’s definitely true,” Aurora agrees, and maybe Killian will just topple over. Sit down on the floor and drink an entire box of wine, and he doesn’t think anyone else notices when Emma pinches the bridge of her nose. “When Phillip and I got married, we went through a couple different venues before we found one that worked with our date.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Sounds hectic,” Killian mumbles. Talking was a mistake. His voice doesn’t even sound like his own, Emma’s gaze snapping up in unspoken warning, and he’s worried he’s using up his miracle supply. So as not to cry out at the overall force of Mary Margaret’s fingers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All five of which were apparently blessed with mutant-type strength. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Luckily we’ve got that covered,” she says, brightly and only a little disingenuous. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emma blinks. “Yeah?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Yup. Did you know you can get a permit for a Central Park wedding for like fifteen bucks?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Wow, that’s—that sounds really nice, actually.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Depends on whether or not it snows, but—” Mary Margaret shrugs, and none of them are lying anymore. Well, at least not quite as<br/>
blatantly as five seconds before. Will’s smile almost looks legitimate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re thinking of an outdoor wedding?” Aurora asks. “In the winter?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Another shrug, hints of color rising on Mary Margaret’s cheeks. “Early December, and we probably won’t be outside for very long. Mostly just the ceremony, and some of the pictures. There’s a certain kind of romanticism to the city in December, isn’t there?”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Aurora doesn’t look overly convinced. Killian barely notices — is admittedly very preoccupied with the look on Emma’s face, and how it almost feels a little wistful and maybe just as romantic and not kissing her is somehow a victory and loss all at the same time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know,” Aurora says slowly, like she’s about to impart a crucial piece of information on them, “if we’re being honest, I am actually surprised this is happening.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
One of Killian’s fingers flutters. Where it’s tangled with Mary Margaret’s, and Emma hasn’t blinked in years. Possibly longer. “Weddings? Or another wonderful event put on by Pendragon?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bet they didn’t try and find this venue that far in advance,” Will mumbles. Emma closes her eyes. That’s like—half a blink, at least. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aurora shakes her head, still looking far more serious than the situation requires. “No, no, no, well...you and Emma are always together at work, aren’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Breathing is a challenge. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gritting his teeth less so, the overall tension in Killian’s jaw threatening to do permanent damage. Emma hasn’t opened her eyes yet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re friends,” he reasons, and if he were actually engaged to Mary Margaret he’d be almost offended by this whole conversation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lying likely robs him of any right to relationship-based offense, though. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh no, no, I know,” Aurora says, without sounding entirely honest, “and I’m sure it’ll be a gorgeous wedding. Just—if we had to guess, I think most people at Pendragon would have thought it’d be the two of you.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
If nothing else, this night has provided a massive insight into all the facial expressions Mary Margaret is capable of making. At least half a dozen that Killian was previously unaware of, including the current one — a mix of disgust and appropriate scandal, and Killian resists the urge to point out that he and Emma probably couldn’t date, even if they wanted to, which they are, but that’s...that’s beside the point. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Entirely. Like a different hemisphere from the point.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aurora gives a tight-lipped smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When did you and—” Will clicks his teeth, effectively redirecting the conversation. “—Phillip, was it?” Aurora hums. “Guessing you two didn’t get married in the winter, did you?”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Whatever else she says gets lost in the buzz between Killian’s ears, the overall state of his heart continuing to threaten the structural integrity of his ribs, and Mary Margaret gives his hand several squeezes. To recapture his attention and whatever professionalism he’s barely clinging to, and she’d been right about romanticism. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of which he’s clearly bordering on hopeless at this point. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emma smiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Aurora excuses herself eventually — Phillip appearing like an unknowing brunette knight in conversational-armor, all four of them nearly exhaling in tandem. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So,” Will says, “scale of one to ten, how much did we suck at that?”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“A forty-seven,” Mary Margaret replies, head lolling onto Killian’s shoulder while he finally lets out the scoff that’s been bubbling in the center of his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Next winter, huh? For real?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
She makes a noise that’s presumably some sort of agreement, and Emma’s smile doesn’t waver. “Thinking about it. If Scarlet will double check with Belle about taking pictures in front of the library.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Public property,” he replies, “don’t have to double check.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“But can we go inside at some point?” Killian asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wimping out about temperature already?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Expressing concerns, like Aurora who is—”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“—A wedding genius, apparently,” Emma mutters, and Mary Margaret’s shoulders shake. She still hasn’t touched her wine. Eventually that will prove important. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Got a lot of opinions when it comes to other people’s plans, at least.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eh,” Will argues, “did we give her much of a chance to delve into those opinions, or was Killian too busy making eyes at Emma?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Continuing to open his mouth without actually saying any words is frustrating. For Killian. And the state of his heart, which cannot seem to find a rhythm anymore. Especially when Emma flushes, and threatens to stare a hole into the floor and of the two dresses she owns that are currently making the rounds at this party, the one she’s actually wearing is better. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Probably because she’s wearing it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I told you,” Mary Margaret grumbles, without any of her previous ability to chastise. She sounds almost amused. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Although,” Will adds, “Emma’s not doing much better, so—”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Huffing out a breath only serves to flutter the few strands of hair that frame either side of Emma’s face, and that’s only vaguely messing with Killian’s perception of...reality, maybe. “Ok, you do not get to point out my own,” she leans closer, like that will help the volume of her next few words, “fake relationship shortcomings.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Why not? It’s making all of this endlessly entertaining.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“I’m a better fake date than you,” Mary Margaret says.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“You had to use your own wedding plans because you can’t take your ring off.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“That is nice!”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
People likely don’t turn the way Killian’s brain has already convinced him they do, but every one of Emma’s teeth is visible when she grits them like that and both of their potentially-obvious fake dates look properly ashamed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Will grumbles, while Mary Margaret twists her heel and whispers, “no more wedding talk, I promise.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Emma laughs. That’s—surprising. And it’s not quite the laugh Killian’s also started claiming as his, but that feels almost possessive, and she’s definitely carrying less tension between her shoulders than he is. “I think that ship has sailed,” she says. “Should have thought about your outfit beforehand.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Killian likes the dress,” Mary Margaret smiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, well Killian likes me, so…”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Tugging Emma against his side, Will lets out another noise that will only garner them more attention, and people are starting to dance. The party fund could not afford a band. Or a DJ. Or anything more than what sounds like slightly muffled speakers and someone’s Spotify premium account. Killian hopes it’s premium, at least. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hearing ads in the middle of this instrumental Christmas music might be the last straw. For his sanity.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Will says, “if Mary Margaret’s going to start planning weddings, then I guess I do have to step my game up. C’mon, Em—let’s show ‘em what we’ve got.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what do we have, exactly?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Impeccable rhythm, and the lingering knowledge of a Groupon dance class.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Do people still use Groupon?” Emma challenges, and Killian loves her an absolutely ridiculous amount. For several thousand things, but at this very moment, it’s mostly how her voice causes Will’s eyes to bug again and his tongue to poke between his lips and maybe the whole night isn’t a total disaster. He should tell her he loves her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sooner rather than later. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My girlfriend,” Will replies, “who will totally be able to sneak Mary Margaret and David into the New York Public Library to avoid frostbite and ensure very pretty pictures, presumably on that fancy staircase they’ve got.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Nothing sets the tone for a winter wedding like some casual breaking and entering,” Killian says, barely containing his grunt when Mary Margaret’s foot shifts. On top of his. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emma rolls her eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re just playing the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’d appreciate whatever rules Belle could break for us,” Mary Margaret promises, “and will not mention that she’s the only person still using Groupon. Like, in the world.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will’s tongue is going to dry out. “Get on my fake date level, almost-Nolan.”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Shout that louder, please,” Emma groans. “And does the staircase not have a name? Fancy staircase cannot possibly be the acceptable vernacular.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Probably not, because no one actual uses the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>vernacular</span>
  </em>
  <span> in actual conversation. Now you’re just trying to show off.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Sound suspiciously like you’re impressed with my vast vocabulary, Scarlet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Product of your profession.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Grand, I think,” Killian says, fully prepared for Emma’s slightly parted lips. He will argue he’s prepared, at least. One of his knees does threaten to buckle though, and Will’s current eye-roll rate cannot possibly be healthy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The profession?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The staircase.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. That’s pretty lame, actually. It doesn’t have like a—staircase sponsor?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Not that I’m aware of, but the entrance hall is called Astor Hall.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Similar to the place of the same name?” Will quips. “Or—”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“—The guy from the Titanic?” Mary Margaret finishes. “Why do you know about this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Killian lifts one shoulder. The one not currently providing rest for Mary Margaret’s head. “I know everything, a good fake-girlfriend would know that.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“And a legitimate girlfriend would dispute that,” Emma says, “plus, the Astors own or have endowed like half of New York. This is not impressive knowledge, and don’t get Mary Margaret talking about Titanic, she’ll start waxing poetic about Leonardo DiCaprio.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“I do have a longstanding crush on Leonardo DiCaprio,” Mary Margaret admits.<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“If I start quoting things about a real party and point out that Kate Winslet was willing to dance, will that get you guys to move?” Will demands. “Because we’re starting to draw attention and that’s probably not going to help our quest.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“It’s a quest now?” Killian asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Way more dramatic that way, so yeah.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Please don’t start quoting Titanic at me,” Emma requests, pulling on the front of Will’s jacket and it’s a testament to their dedication to this ridiculous plan, or quest, that he wore a jacket. No matter how bad a plan it might be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or quest. Whatever, honestly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” she continues, “show off the lessons, or I’ll make fun of you for the foreseeable future.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Will winks. Not well, but possibly better than Killian is capable of, and he’s going to blame the wine. “Prepare to be absolutely wowed, m’dear.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rolling her eyes doesn’t do anything to shift the smile off Emma’s face, although she does look at Killian before she moves and the jealousy clouding his overall sense of being is as antiquated as the music and as absurd as anything else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Impressive, considering their overall barometer for absurd. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When do you think Aurora got married?” Killian asks, rolling his head towards a sympathetic-looking Mary Margaret. “Spring? June? That’s cliché, right?”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“June,” she echoes. “Probably required her dozen bridesmaids to help her hand-make table favors, too. Just to really drive the point home. You want something else to drink?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Yes, obviously.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Narrowing her eyes slightly when she nods, makes it more difficult to look at her — but that might also have something to do with the amount of alcohol Killian’s already consumed, and he really does appreciate how often Mary Margaret keeps making him eat. Even when it appears everything on this catering menu comes with bacon. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Don’t do that, ok?” he asks, at least two of their allotted four party-hours later. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She lifts her eyebrows. “Keep texting my fiancé?”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Maybe you are the worse fake date.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Well, you’re speaking in tongues now, so—” Shrugging, Mary Margaret’s shoulder doesn’t collide with Killian’s, but he’s also starting to feel a little buzzed. And hating bacon. And possibly happiness. On principle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will and Emma keep dancing. Which also keeps them from having to interact with anyone else, but his buzzed-mind doesn’t care, and this whole thing was mostly his idea and that’s starting to really annoy him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That might be his base setting at this point.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bacon,” Killian clarifies, “don’t allow the national obsession with bacon to affect your food decisions when you—” Footsteps move by them, curious eyes and he’s not a frog, so his blood cannot possibly run cold. Plus, it’s honestly way too warm in this room. “We,” he amends, somehow rushing over two letters, and Mary Margaret noticeably sags against his side. “What was that about this being a dumb idea?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Ah, getting fired at Christmas-time sucks. How will you buy us all presents, then?” Laughing helps loosen the knot of emotion that’s been growing increasingly tight in Killian’s chest, and the ends of Mary Margaret’s lips quirk up when he kisses the top of her hair. “Bacon is vastly overrated, though,” she adds, “people are obsessed with it.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“It’s weird, right?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Definitely. Should I apologize for getting you engaged against your will?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Kissing her hair again is easier than responding, because responding might force Killian to contend with a lot of life-type plans he’s only half concocted, and he really should tell Emma he loves her first. Like, more than he realized. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Until he had to pretend he didn’t. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah, but you can explain it to David because I don’t want my story to get interrupted when he inevitably starts laughing.”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“You wanna dance?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Smirking at her does not have the same effect it has on Emma. And that’s definitely a good thing, but Killian’s drifting towards melancholy and the music isn’t instrumental anymore. Michael Bublé is a Christmas requirement, though. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He flips his wrist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sweep you off your feet, Miss Blanchard.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
She’s closing in on Will for number of pointed, if not passably amused, eye rolls. Still, Mary Margaret’s hand lands in his, and Emma’s eyes definitely drift towards them — which is as bad as it is good, and Michael Bublé’s version Santa Baby might actually be the worst thing that’s happened to any of them. All night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not exactly the pinnacle of music, is it?” Killian mumbles, and Mary Margaret hasn’t stepped on his foot. Or pointed out how close they linger to Will and Emma, both of whom look as unenthused by the music choices. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And maybe it’s because he keeps staring, or possibly because Will is not the asshole he likes to pretend to be, but Killian is not entirely prepared for his friend to spin his fake date closer, or mutter something about </span>
  <em>
    <span>cutting in</span>
  </em>
  <span> that makes Mary Margaret laugh and Emma’s jaw drop and she steps on his foot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s the best thing that’s happened to him. All night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We are not good at this,” Emma says, but she doesn’t sound all that upset about it and the buzz between his ears lessens. Turns into something warm and hopeful, and she’s close enough that he can smell her shampoo. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Something to be said for effort though, right?”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“I’m not sure we’re making much of an effort.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nosing at her hair proves her point, but Killian’s—an idiot, and willing to blame romance, and the holiday season, and all the wine. So much. Even more bacon. God, he hates bacon. “Scarlet’s not subtle. And you look incredible.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Do those sentiments go together?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“No,” Killian answers, “but true all the same.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” Twirling her away, only to bring her back just as quickly, Killian doesn’t try very hard to avoid the smirk. So, he’s kind of a glutton too. For punishment, and poorly-timed emotions, and there’s a rather obvious glint in Emma’s eyes that leaves him breathless. Plus, she sort of slams back into his chest. “God,” she grumbles, “lacking some grace, huh?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Eh, we’ll get there.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Will we just?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
He only realizes what he’s said when he notices the way her voice drops — rasped between lips that are redder than usual, and difficult to hear over goddamn Michael Bublé, and he’s totally staring at her lips. Obviously, he’s sure. “Yeah,” Killian nods. “Guaranteed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Part of him worries. Suddenly, Immediately. Overwhelming—ly. But Emma doesn’t move, and they’re more swaying than dancing now, and Mary Margaret’s footsteps are rushed. In a dramatic, everything is blowing up sort of way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That sucks, admittedly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you—” Emma starts, but Mary Margaret just shakes her head. Yanking on Killian’s sleeve, she threatens to rip the fabric and he’s never heard her use any of those words. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why didn’t you tell me?” she hisses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Killian tilts his head. “Be more specific.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lance Sinqua is here. Is he supposed to be here? Why didn't either of you tell me he was going to be here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He works in acquisitions, I think.”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“I thought you knew everything,” Emma teases, and he has to bite the other side of his tongue. To stop from kissing her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Making out, more like.<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“I’ve had a lot of wine,” Killian reasons, “Should I be more concerned about why Sinqua being at his own holiday party is a problem?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Swatting at his side with both hands, Mary Margaret all but snarls. Emma looks appropriately surprised. “I know him,” Mary Margaret says, pausing between every word for emphasis. “And he has seen me.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
What feels like the weight of several words and half a dozen ridiculous plans and/or quests fall into the pit of Killian’s stomach. Where they immediately crush a variety of internal organs. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Will’s distracting him now,” Mary Margaret explains, “but—he doesn’t know David personally, just that I’ve got a boyfriend—”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“—Fiancé,” Emma corrects lightly, but the tone changes again and Killian’s never gone into shock before. He assumes it feels suspiciously like this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do not care; at all. Just—Killian, you’ve got to come. Now. Like right now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding hurts his neck again, but Killian’s legs move on their own and his hand finds Mary Margaret’s and thinking about the look on Emma’s face isn’t healthy. Makes him want to stand on a table, or something equally absurd. Shout several things from several different rooftops, and he wonders if she’ll have to wear a red dress for the wedding. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The real one, not whatever one he and Mary Margaret are going to lie about.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And to his credit, Will’s attempts to run distraction do look admirable. Moving hands and a nearly legitimate smile, while Lance nods in interest and continued conversation, and Killian squeezes Mary Margaret’s hand. In what he hopes is solidarity. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Will exhales, as soon as he sees them, “here he is.”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Killian’s cheeks ache. “Present and accounted for. You must be Lance, Mary Margaret said you’re old friends.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Ah, I don’t know about old,” Lance objects, “but certainly the rest of it. I didn’t know she’d be here, would have asked you guys for drinks before or something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s really no word for the sound Mary Margaret makes at that. Part squeak, and what sounds like an admission, but that says a lot more about Killian’s growing guilt and residual jealousy and—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How long have you two been engaged?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Racking his brain, Killian’s had too much to drink for this. He’s dimly aware of Mary Margaret swaying closer to him, Will’s grimace all but broadcasting how unprepared they are for that particular question, but it also seems like he’s trying to tell Killian something. He does not understand. Fuck boxed wine, quite frankly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He opts for honesty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sort of.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It worked for Mary Margaret, after all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sort of. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ve, uh—” Killian starts, “—been engaged only a couple of weeks, but...we’ve been dating since March.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will’s shoulders droop. His eyes turn imploring, but he can’t actually say anything and Lance is, so it absolutely does not matter. “March?” he echoes. “Your friend said it was kind of a whirlwind romance. Got together in the summer.”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>His mouth does more than open. His jaw drops, nearly to his ankles and shoes that he actually got polished because this party isn’t super important, but Killian wanted to look nice on his fake date and Mary Margaret’s hand is the only reason he doesn’t fall over. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah,” Killian breathes, “right. That’s—yeah, that’s right.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Lance doesn’t look convinced, either. He should go talk to Aurora. Who keeps glancing at Emma, like she’s got like SONAR. Joke doesn’t even make sense. In Killian’s head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ve been celebrating a bunch of different anniversaries,” Mary Margaret cuts in, speaking so quickly it’s as if </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> lie jumps out of her mouth, does cartwheels and then gets a four from the Russian judge for lack of proper execution. “Y'know...romance, and everything. He’s uh—Killian must be thinking of when we met.”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Lance quirks an eyebrow. He might hate Lance. He definitely hates Lance. “You’ve only known each other since March.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Oh my God,” Will mumbles, scratching behind his ear. And really, that’s not what does it. But it’s certainly a tipping point, or a metaphorical straw, and Killian nods once before he lifts Mary Margaret’s hand to his mouth, mumbles </span>
  <em>
    <span>thanks</span>
  </em>
  <span> against her knuckles and marches directly towards his actual girlfriend. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Who is standing directly under the mistletoe. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’d be more impressive if she wasn’t, honestly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And the music doesn’t stop — although Killian can’t really hear it either, an arm finding Emma’s waist, and her hands landing flat against his chest and someone cheers. Will. It’s definitely Will. Heads turn towards them, surprise coloring more than a few of their co-workers faces, while others look...less so. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Killian doesn’t bother dwelling on that. He’s got more important things to do. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m pretty ridiculously in love with you,” he says, Emma’s eyes getting brighter and her lips as distracting as ever. Several of the less-than-surprised faces aww. Audibly. Which doesn’t quite make sense, but he’s still not dwelling and—“Not admitting to dating you is driving me nuts.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“When is your lease up?”<br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“What?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Were those words confusing in that order?” Emma asks, infusing the question with false confidence that he can hear perfectly and she should have confidence in spades. At least when it comes to this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe if they get to keep their jobs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A little,” Killian concedes. “Are you—do you want me to move in with you?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“A ridiculous amount.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s admittedly not the best adjective I could have used.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Eh, I won’t get particular with syntax.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
“Stop showing off,” Will yells, “and kiss other directly on the mouth!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a general hum of agreement — even while Lance continues to look a little confused, and Aurora looks a little offended, both of which makes sense because they were fairly awful liars, and someone’s given Arthur a microphone. So the owner of Pendragon Publishing can tell them, “Literally everyone knew, you both suck at not making out in the break room.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Heat wafts off Emma, climbs up Killian’s neck and takes root in both of his cheeks and Arthur is not done. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not encouraged. Intra-office relationships, usually way more trouble than they’re worth, but, well—all you really need to do is sign some paperwork with HR and maybe find some other corners that are less obvious.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
Nodding slowly only makes it more obvious the kind of strain all of Killian’s muscles are under, but he can’t come up with a feasible response to that and Emma’s fingers curl. Into his shirt, and he imagines that makes it easier — when she yanks him forward, lips slanting over his and she doesn’t have to push up the way she normally does. Still, Killian’s fairly certain he hears one of her heels pop out of her shoes, and if this is how it feels when a heart beats its way out of a person’s chest, it’s actually fairly comfortable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you too,” Emma mumbles, against his mouth. So, the only reasonable response is to kiss her again. Several times over. </span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>And they do fill out paperwork, eventually — the story of the fake date fiasco, as David comes to call it, perfect fodder for Emma’s maid of honor speech, and proof positive of the inherent romanticism of the city at Christmas. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Golden Days of Yore</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Today's festive prompt comes from strangestarlighttree,who requested: I wasn’t planning on asking you, but it appeared to me that life is short. Will you marry me? A prompt to which I almost legitimately stuck and got a much-needed assist from shireness-says, who knows the extent of my Pirates of the Caribbean love. </p>
<p>All of this is almost shamelessly stolen from Pirates of the Caribbean. Justice for Will Turner 2k4ever. Come hang out on <a href="http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a> if you're down where we can discuss all the reasons the first Pirates is a perfect movie.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You have got to stop doing the face thing.”</p>
<p>Lifting an eyebrow, Killian did not, in fact, stop doing the face thing. If anything, his expression only grew more pointed, lips thinning and eyes turning appraising, and Emma supposed that was an understandable reaction to the last seventy-two hours or so, but those same seventy-two hours had been just as stressful for her and—</p>
<p>It was snowing. </p>
<p>All things considered, that seemed entirely unfair.</p>
<p>“What does the face thing entail, exactly?”<br/><br/>Waving a hand through the barely-there space between them, Emma refused to acknowledge whatever fluttered in the pit of her stomach. At the continued arch of his one eyebrow, and the way his lips quirked up ever so slightly, which only made it all too obvious how her eyes kept lingering on his mouth, but that also might have been the crux of her problem, and she was seriously considering strangling His Majesty King Arthur of Camelot. </p>
<p>On principle, or something. </p>
<p>“You’re doing it now,” Emma sneered, voice rising on every letter. “Can’t you tell?”<br/><br/>“What my face is doing at this very moment? ‘Fraid I might have a few other things on my mind.”</p>
<p>Yanking his sword out of its scabbard felt slightly over the top, even when the soft <em> whoosh </em> of metal was oddly comforting, although Emma’s mind was quick to point out that also might have just been him and them and all those collective and vaguely possessive pronouns made the shouts chasing after them a little less intimidating. Still, admittedly a bit problematic, but—</p>
<p>None of this was supposed to happen. </p>
<p>Everyone knew. Everyone had always known. Watched them grow up together, less-than-covert glances in the throne room, and more time spent together than was entirely appropriate, but no one had ever told them to stop and Emma was fairly certain she wouldn’t have listened anyway. And by now, most kingdoms had simply accepted the inevitably of it all, willing to ally with Misthaven in a different sort of way, but Arthur was something of a noted ass and almost too self-important. Killian’s shoulders had gone very straight when it happened. </p>
<p>“Oh, you think you’re very clever,” Emma grumbled, letting him twist and turn her until she was flush against his side. </p>
<p>“I think I’m rather fantastic at making you blush, actually.”<br/><br/>“Overconfidence does not become you.”</p>
<p>“I’m not sure that’s true,” Killian argued, tapping a free finger on Emma’s warmer-than-usual cheek, and the snow was getting stronger. Heavier, maybe. Specifics could not have mattered less. They had to get out of that kingdom. “C’mon, let’s—” Yanking on her arm nearly pulled the stupid thing out of its socket, Emma’s objection falling on deaf and determined ears while they darted down a different street. “This looks good, right?”</p>
<p>“If you get us lost,” she warned, “I’m going to be very frustrated.”</p>
<p>“That’s what will frustrate you most? Of all the things? My sense of direction?”</p>
<p>“Do you smell that?” Grimacing, Emma could see every one of Killian’s teeth, and it smelled like stale ale and sailors in desperate need of a bar of soap, and somehow, like hay. “What if we stole some horses?” she suggested. “Just for fun.”<br/><br/>He kissed the top of her hair. More than once — almost like he was making sure she was still there, and that had never really been up for debate, but Emma could not stop thinking about the state of his shoulders, and the amount of tension in them couldn’t have been healthy. “Why did we even agree to come to this God forsaken place at all?”</p>
<p>“Diplomacy, or something. And Liam didn’t want to sail, for what it’s worth.”</p>
<p>Huffing, Killian’s gaze kept darting back over his shoulder. The guards were getting closer. Louder, even. More shout-prone. “Few gold pieces, at least,” he grumbled, and that time it was Emma’s laugh that was a little out of place. “Although our vaunted captain would be rather put-out if we did steal horses. Nowhere to store them on-board.”<br/><br/>“Ah, yeah, that’s a good point, actually.”</p>
<p>“Do you think we still get paid despite all of that desired diplomacy almost spectacularly blowing up in all our faces?”<br/><br/>“Ok, nothing blew up, that’s—” <br/><br/>“—A technicality, I’m sure.” <br/><br/>Not sticking her tongue out was not the victory Emma wanted it to be. “Wasn’t a possibility.” <br/><br/>“Rather atrocious liar, m’dear.” <br/><br/>A victory likely couldn’t count as a victory when it ended as suddenly as that one did. Cold air stung Emma’s tongue as soon as it snuck between her teeth, Killian’s expression turning knowing and a hint more confident and he kept shaking his sword. So the snow wouldn’t stick. </p>
<p>Liam really had not wanted to sail in the winter. </p>
<p>“Reasonable, though,” Killian added, shoulder bumping Emma’s while she tried to turn and somehow keep moving and the arm around her waist was even better than all those pronouns from before. Noticeably warmer, too. </p>
<p>He was always ridiculously warm. Like her own personal—</p>
<p>That was dramatic. Overly so, honestly. And no matter how straight his shoulders might have gone, Killian had never actually done anything. Not yet, at least. Said a few things; whispered them in Emma’s ear when they ducked into that one corner that no one ever seemed to glance towards in that one hall that was often abandoned in the castle, or as soon as Emma’s arms circled his neck the moment his feet returned to solid land, and that second thing had been happening more often, but she knew it was only because her parents trusted him, and Liam was a rather fantastic captain and the Jewel of the Realm was the pride of Misthaven’s naval force. </p>
<p>Separations were better with reunions like theirs. And he was exceptionally good at kissing her. Specifically. On the edge of the dock, or anywhere else. </p>
<p>“My father might challenge Arthur to a duel,” Emma muttered, trying to catch her breath. Easier said than done at the moment, more footsteps and cries that sounded suspiciously battle in nature. Fighting their way out of Camelot had not really been part of the plan. </p>
<p>Tightening his arm, Killian spun Emma again — her back colliding with the nearest wall, and that didn’t do much to help the state of her lungs, but she assumed that was simply a product of everything else and Killian’s eyes were almost soft when she let her head loll to the side. </p>
<p>“He might have to get in line.”<br/><br/>“Sounding awfully confident in your sword skills.” <br/><br/>Scoffing made his shoulders shift, and the few strands of hair that fell across his forehead moved. As if they knew exactly what that did to Emma, and her magic, and the overall state of her heart. All of them threatening to combust there, in a dingy Camelot alley. “You know,” Killian drawled, “I’d never really understood the expression to see red until I was standing in that throne room, listening to some bastard king try to marry you off to his nephew.”</p>
<p>“I was worried my magic was going to actually cause an earthquake.”</p>
<p>Emma wasn’t sure when, exactly, Killian’s hand had found hers again — only that his fingers tightened and his thumb started tracing the edge of her wrist and both of those things were more than enough to calm her unsteady pulse. Magic, too. <br/><br/>It had always worked like that. With them. There had always been a them. </p>
<p>“Mmhm, I could tell. Rather noticeable when the ends of your hair glow, you realize?”<br/><br/>“What was that about being a bastard?” <br/><br/>“Orphan,” Killian amended, “if you’d like to get technical. Born into something almost resembling honor, and married parents.”</p>
<p>Her head was already dangerously close to resting on her own shoulder, so Emma knew her neck couldn’t take much more of this particular angle, but she also could not have cared less and the hitch in Killian’s voice made her whole body ache. “Arthur’s an idiot. This was...none of this was supposed to happen, it was supposed to be trade routes and opening up business with Camelot’s grain producers and—” Emma sighed, blinking back tears that would do nothing to help the situation. “Mordred had horrible hair.”</p>
<p>Something, something, <em> like her own personal sun</em>. </p>
<p>Turning his head slower than she entirely appreciated, the force of Killian’s answering smile was enough to root Emma the ground. Magic roared in her ears, some kind of emotion-based symphony because everyone had always told her that magic relied on emotion and most of hers had always been centered around the man currently staring at her like she was the center of the known universe. </p>
<p>It had always worked like that. With them. </p>
<p>“That’s what made all the difference, huh?”<br/><br/>Emma shrugged. “I wouldn’t say all the difference, but it was certainly a factor.” <br/><br/>“Naturally, and what else does the crown princess look for when choosing a suitor.? Aside from hair length and—” He narrowed his eyes, leaning close enough that his nose nearly brushed Emma’s cheek. She wished it would. She almost forgot they needed to keep running. <br/>“I’m assuming a lack of well-tailored clothing.” <br/><br/>“Gods, right? Like he was wearing a burlap sack.” <br/><br/>“Not very becoming for a royal.” <br/><br/>“Or anyone,” Emma corrected, tugging lightly on the front of a uniform with more medals on it than she remembered. “Nothing was ever going to happen, you know that?”</p>
<p>“The hair really was a rather fantastic clue.”<br/><br/>“I’m serious.” <br/><br/>Another head kiss. Fingers that grazed the edge of Emma’s jaw, threatening to card through strands of hair that weren’t as greasy as Mordered’s, but were growing increasingly damp the longer they stood stock-still in a snow storm. He nosed at her cheek. </p>
<p>She tried very hard not to fall over. </p>
<p>“I know,” Killian promised, something just on the edge of his voice that Emma couldn’t name. Part regret, and something almost akin to disappointment or desperation and that last one likely had something to do with the shouting. Growing loud again, despite their imperfect hiding spot, and of all the things she could have done, pushing up on her toes, slinging an arm over one of his shoulders and kissing the ever living daylights out of him probably wasn’t one of her better ideas. </p>
<p>Even after sailing to Camelot in the winter. </p>
<p>Still, it only took, by Emma’s admittedly shaky count, about three seconds for Killian to respond. Enthusiastically. </p>
<p>Pulling Emma closer, she was never entirely sure who made what noise. Only that one of them might have gasped, and the other certainly groaned, her hips canting up and his hand flat against the small of her back, panted breaths coming between lips that moved much quicker than usual. As if they realized they were pressed for time, and anxious to use all of it — to prove something, possibly. </p>
<p>Snow continued to fall on both of them, covering Killian’s shoulders and clinging to the ends of Emma’s hair, some of which had also started to shimmer just a bit. It cast shadows around them, bits of light stretching across the cobblestone street and splaying across Killian’s chest when Emma leaned back because oxygen appeared to still be a basic human necessity, despite her efforts to prove otherwise. </p>
<p>“Maybe we shouldn’t have run out of the throne room,” she mumbled, mostly into Killian’s mouth. Moving away from his mouth appeared to be impossible in the moment. </p>
<p>He kissed the bridge of her nose, that time. </p>
<p>“I believe, love, that you were the only one who sprinted out of the throne room, I—”<br/><br/>“—Oh no, there was no sprinting!” <br/><br/>“There was, I watched it happen.” <br/><br/>“In this gown?” Emma argued, another wave of her hand and she figured she had an excuse to stare at Killian’s lips now. More so than usual, at least. “Explain the logistics of that to me, please.”</p>
<p>Opening his mouth, Killian’s jaw snapped shut before he could respond with what was undoubtedly the realm’s snarkiest answer — both of their gazes darting towards a brand-new voice. Who sounded suspiciously like Arthur’s captain of the guard, and Emma had only met Lancelot a few times, but he always seemed fairly nice. She was starting to reexamine that position. </p>
<p>“Your Highness,” Lancelot called, rounding the corner and his sword was drawn too. “Stop this. Just—” His eyebrows lifted when he took in the scene, and Emma could only imagine the state her hair was in. Killian’s hand didn’t move. Tightened, maybe — on the back of her gown, which really was much too long to sprint in. “You need to come back to the palace, Your Highness. His Majesty is willing to overlook all of this if—”<br/><br/>“—I marry his nephew?” <br/><br/>Lancelot didn’t respond. Didn’t really have to, not when he was suddenly flanked by half a dozen more uniforms and obviously sharp swords. </p>
<p>Emma exhaled. “I think I’ve made it rather clear how I feel about that, don’t you, Sir Knight?”</p>
<p>“It’s a good match, Your Highness.”<br/><br/>“And I’m sure you’d really like to believe that, but—” Shrugging continued to be the easiest reaction. Aside from the kissing. Which was always easy. And good. Really good. Their overall talent at kissing each other had to count for several things, Emma was sure. “—I’m afraid I’ve got to tell you that your king is,” Emma hissed in a breath, only a little worried about the state of Killian’s shoulders and his grip on her dress, “an idiot.”</p>
<p>He snickered. Honest to all the Gods Emma could name, and a few other she couldn’t. Directly in her ear, chest shaking with the effort and Lancelot’s eyes understandably bugged when Killian kissed the side of Emma’s neck. </p>
<p>Not particularly diplomatic.<br/><br/>“Might have just squandered away your payment, Lieutenant,” she muttered, dimly aware of Lancelot’s orders and the limited number of escape routes in this alley. </p>
<p>“Ah, it might have been worth it. Did I mention I love you, today?”<br/><br/>“I don’t believe so, no.” <br/><br/>“Foolish. Shall we start running again?” <br/><br/>Using Killian’s shoulder as leverage, he only grunted slightly when Emma jumped up. But then his arm was curled around her waist again, and her feet weren’t touching the ground and—</p>
<p>She nodded. </p>
<p>“Might be in our best interest.”</p>
<p>Smacking a kiss to his cheek on her way back towards the ground, Emma’s feet barely made contact before they were moving, darting around confused passerbys and a handful of interested guards who were immediately reprimanded for not stopping <em> the prisoner</em>, which—</p>
<p>“I’m a prisoner now,” Emma mused, “that’s interesting, I’ve never been that before.”<br/><br/>“Keep moving, and we might be able to avoid that.” <br/><br/>“Oh, promises promises.”</p>
<p>“Am I still doing the face thing, then?”</p>
<p>Making an undignified sound in the back of her throat, Emma nodded as obnoxiously as she was able, fully expecting the tip of Killian’s tongue to find the corner of his mouth. Somehow, the stupid thing still managed to be distracting, but then tilted lips rather quickly became a smirk, and something far closer to teasing than their current situation should have allowed and his sword moved far quicker than she was entirely ready for. </p>
<p>Steel hit steel, directly above Emma’s head — those same eyes that had been so content to linger on wholly out-of-place flirt-type expressions widening before she could properly school her features, and Killian had actually had the gall to laugh. Soft, and slightly under his breath, but the noise was still there and the fluttering in Emma’s stomach was starting to inch up her throat. If her cloak got ruined by these snowflakes, she really would do something drastic to Arthur. </p>
<p>Who, it appeared, had sent a rather large battalion after them. </p>
<p>That might not have been the right word, honestly. Caring about proper vocabulary seemed to be a waste of time in the midst of what may very well be a declaration of war, or at least open hostilities, and that did not really match up with the season, or the reasoning behind their initial visit, but that initial visit was apparently a rather enormous rouse and—</p>
<p>“Yes, but,” Killian grunted, pushing on Emma’s shoulder and he didn’t need to. Ducking on her own, she flipped her palms up, warmth buzzing under her skin and through any number of veins in either one of her arms, and the nearest Camelot guard dropped. Almost immediately. </p>
<p>She grinned. </p>
<p>HIs eyebrow practically disappeared into his hairline. </p>
<p>“But,” Emma echoed. </p>
<p>“Simply telling me that I’m doing something doesn’t exactly describe what I’m doing and—ah, bloody hell.” Grinning even wider, she sidestepped another swipe of his sword, the ends of her now snow-stained gown twisting around her ankles, and there were more of them. Guards continued to pour across the drawbridge in front of the castle, and that castle wasn’t much more than a blot on the horizon anymore, but Emma could still see the flags fluttering from the tops of several dozen spires, the minimal sunlight glinting off metal and stone and neither one of those things felt particularly fair either. Nothing about that castle deserved gleaming spires, or well-maintained flags, and it took about twelve seconds of increasing frustration for Emma’s magic to noticeably shift. </p>
<p>Into something far closer to frustration, and possibly even anger and the guard in front of Killian gasped. Once the sword hilt he was holding started to burn his hand. </p>
<p>“Impressive trick, Your Highness,” Killian said. Another chuckle. A more potent smirk. Flirting in the middle of attack likely wasn’t one of their better ideas, either. </p>
<p>Even though—well, one time they’d snuck out of the castle, to try and learn the constellations, which at the time had felt very romantic and entirely swoon-worthy, but then Emma had fallen asleep, and Killian had fallen asleep and she’s still not sure she’s ever seen her father more upset. </p>
<p>It had created a bit of a scandal. </p>
<p>Sleeping, not her father’s anger. Which might get a run for its memorable money once learned about everything that had happened in Camelot. </p>
<p>Marriage proposals were supposed to be run by him first, after all. Or so she’d imagine. Even antiquated as that particular notion was. </p>
<p>“Flatter me with just a hint more honesty next time, Lieutenant,” Emma muttered, and there was likely no important reason for his hand to be as warm as it was. Lacing his fingers through hers, Killian’s eyes noticeably brightened, tugging lightly on Emma’s arm and they weren’t exactly running, anymore — couldn’t, what with the state of her increasingly heavy skirts and the state of the road, and both of them slipped more than once as they dashed towards the docks, footsteps echoing behind them. </p>
<p>“I’ll see what I can do about that in the future,” Killian laughed. Skidding across the makeshift gangplank, Emma nearly collided with his back the moment they got back on deck, met almost instantaneously by Captain Liam Jones. And the hands that appeared cemented to his hips. </p>
<p>“Overstuffed mother hen,” Killian mumbled. Or at least tried. It didn’t really work — and part of Emma wondered if that was simply because she was more attuned to him and his voice, and several other things she couldn’t begin to consider in the moment, but she was admittedly also a little distracted by the muscle jumping in Liam’s temple. </p>
<p>“Have a few opinions you’d like to voice a bit louder, Lieutenant?” Liam asked archly, and that particular use of Killian’s title wasn’t quite as fun. Scrunching her nose, Emma tried very hard to disappear into the background, but that background also included more guards and more swords and—“Weigh anchor,” Liam shouted, command lacing every letter, “get those sails ready, I want us gone as—” </p>
<p>Cutting himself off the way he did, didn’t do much to inspire any confidence in their ability to escape, and it was entirely possible Emma was the greatest and most consistent idiot in this entire comedy of errors. There wasn’t any wind. No moving tide, or any of the other sailing-type factors she didn’t entirely understand, but knew were a requirement for actually leaving Camelot. </p>
<p>They needed to leave Camelot. </p>
<p>Her refusal of Mordred hadn’t been particularly kind. Included quite a lot of cursing, actually. She hoped that part of the story didn’t make it back to her mother. </p>
<p>Keeping her eyes trained on her feet only made it more obvious when Liam nearly stepped on them, light reflecting off the top of his boots and eventually she’d have to thank him. For not mentioning the location of Killian’s hand. Or it’s equally cement-like tendencies. To her. Killian kept touching her. <br/><br/>“Might need some help, ma’am.”</p>
<p>“I’ve never altered the course of the winds,” Emma argued, and she didn’t have to look up. Could hear Liam’s eyebrows lift, an unspoken challenge she’d absolutely rise up to meet because she was nothing if not impossibly stubborn. </p>
<p>Killian kissed the top of her hair again. In front of his brother. So, things were rather dire, it seemed. <br/><br/>“Fine, fine,” Emma sighed, barely flinching when someone kicked the gangplank into the harbor. Water crested the deck railing, her neck finally willing to participate in the conversation again — and that wasn’t the good thing it should have been, more than a handful of Camelot uniforms somehow also standing on deck, with brandished swords and nearly-identical sneers that only served to frustrate her even more, and the first flutter of magic at the back of her brain made Killian’s fingers twitch. </p>
<p>Liam’s eyebrows didn’t move. </p>
<p>“Scale of one to ten…”<br/><br/>“A forty-seven,” Killian sighed, all but shoving Emma that time. One side of his hip bumped hers, wrist and arm moving in the kind of tandem she would have been impressed by if she weren’t still a little frustrated, and preoccupied with their collective kissing talent. “If not more, I—” Kicking his leg out, the Camelot guard cursed when he landed on his back, lifting both hands in surrender as soon as Killian pointed his sword at the man’s chest. “—Hadn’t ever heard some of the words she used when Arthur started talking about a solstice wedding.” <br/><br/>“Solstice,” Liam echoed in disbelief. “But that’s—” <br/><br/>“—Two weeks,” Emma finished, keeping a grip on Killian’s left elbow. For stability, because they didn’t have the tide, but they did have oars and a sliver of space between the Jewel and its dock, and also because touching him made everything else easier. Magic, belief, a slew of increasingly sentimental and dramatic thoughts, and she should have told him she loved him back. “Apparently he thought if we wrapped it up quickly, it would be easier. And there would be decorations, some swill about fresh starts and turns of the calendar, I think.” <br/><br/>“Used those exact words, did he?” <br/><br/>“Any wonder I ran out of there as quickly as I did?”</p>
<p>“Gods, what an idiot. Killian didn’t challenge him to a duel, did he?”</p>
<p>Blushing continued to be one of Emma’s more ridiculous bodily reactions, particularly when it came with that grin on Killian’s face and he didn’t look away from her when he moved his sword. Behind his back, blocking a cowardly attack at his shoulder blades and Emma regretted the amount of oxygen she exhaled as soon as it was gone from her lungs. </p>
<p>Which appeared to be dissolving in her chest. </p>
<p>The latest attacker tripped over the other man, still lying prostrate at Killian’s feet. So, the whole thing had devolved into farce rather quickly.</p>
<p>“Wasn’t really enough time,” she admitted, Liam’s ensuing nod not quite as official when he was also chuckling at her. </p>
<p>“Where do you think your vocabulary took such a turn, princess?”</p>
<p>Emma rolled her eyes. <br/><br/>“Must have spent time with some especially shady characters,” Killian said, turning his arm so he could pull Emma away from another uniform. That one looked like he was holding cuffs. “Need you to get behind me, love.”</p>
<p>“Are you kidding me?”<br/><br/>“Did I sound like I was kidding?” <br/><br/>All three of them were going to suffer from headaches, sooner or later. Liam’s eyes threatened to get stuck in the back of his head — Emma not sure if he was reacting to her or his brother, or them together, and it didn’t matter because he was already taking the stairs back to the helm. “A man tried to stab you in the back,” Emma yelled, gesturing wildly and she imagined that only made it easier for Killian to walk her towards those same stairs. She didn’t trip. </p>
<p>Probably unimportant, as well. </p>
<p>“I’m failing to see the point. Walk, Swan.”</p>
<p>Swords continued to clatter around them, more than a few grunts and especially creative curses, and Killian’s eyes only slightly moved when Emma stared at him. In what she hoped looked like unspoken victory, and she couldn’t declare victory before they were out of this realm, but she’d really hadn’t ever done that before and—<br/><br/>“Duck,” she cried, not at all surprised when Killian followed instructions. Without question. </p>
<p>His fingers curled around her waist when he moved, Lancelot freezing where he stood and he stood much closer to both of them than Emma appreciated. Another pair of cuffs hung from his left hand, eyes threatening to take up most of the space on his face while his pupils darted left and right. His lips were still parted, as if he were getting ready to say something else, but no sound came out and Emma’s next exhale had a distinctly unhinged edge to it.</p>
<p>“Bloody genius,” Killian murmured, kissing exactly where his lips landed. Against Emma’s stomach. </p>
<p>And for as frozen as Lancelot was, and as overwhelmed as Emma was starting to get, the rest of the ship did not appear to get that particular command. Wood splintered as men were tossed into boxes of cargo, sails barely moving in the minimal breeze they’d been afforded, and Killian only just pulled Emma out of the path of an oncoming uniform before that same uniform rushed up the stairs, lifted his sword and started fighting Liam. Which might have been the worst mistake any of them had made yet. </p>
<p>Huffing, Killian mumbled something that sounded like <em> never hear the end of it </em> against Emma’s temple, but she barely heard it. Was too focused on gripping the front of his jacket, and closing her eyes, trying to focus magic that had always been a little unruly and occasionally almost terrifying and several strands of hair immediately hit her cheeks. </p>
<p>“I need you to talk,” Emma said, and that wasn’t quite the order her last words had been, but Killian responded all the same. After kissing the edge of her mouth. </p>
<p>Words flowed out of him — as easy as anything, promising and guaranteeing, and quite some time was paid to Emma’s vast library of curses, but then the tone shifted and she wasn’t even sure she’d recognize it if she hadn’t been desperate for it. Low and a little gruffer than usual, like his throat was tightening around the feeling, and maybe even around her, and the glow wasn’t contained to the ends of her hair anymore. It hung from the bend of her elbow, wrapped around either one of her ankles and inched up the curve of Killian’s left calf. Wrapped around both of them, like some barrier of magic and—</p>
<p>“What if we got married?” </p>
<p>Brows soaring, Killian’s jaw tightened enough that Emma was briefly worried for the state of his teeth, but she heard the soft pop of his lips when they parted and she was still staring at his lips, so it was easy to notice the exact moment they tilted up. </p>
<p>Into a smile. Of the sun-type variety. </p>
<p>“I know this isn’t the best time, and this wasn't part of the plan, but...well, we are under attack and if we die, then—”</p>
<p>Liam groaned. "We're not going to die. Honestly."</p>
<p>"Something about the brevity of life, then," Emma lifted a shoulder, still gripping the front of Killian’s jacket. That likely made it easier for him to wrap his fingers around her wrists, lift her hands and kiss the bend of her knuckles. Not melting right there was also a rather impressive victory. “It’s not an answer, really,” she muttered. “Still, I...uh—”<br/><br/>“—You really don’t know?” <br/><br/>Her heart skipped a beat. Multiple beats, if the state of her body was any indication and Emma didn’t remember deciding to breathe out of her mouth. Probably ruined the moment. Although the battle didn’t help much, either. </p>
<p>“It does prove you’re not a snoop, darling. So, I suppose that’s a boon to my confidence for the future of this entire relationship.”</p>
<p>Her eyes were going to fall out. Directly on the deck, where they would roll around, and inevitably get stepped on, and Emma still could not bring herself to blink. Missing any of the next fourteen seconds of conversation was an impossibility. “You really don’t know,” Killian repeated, sounding more awed that time and—<br/><br/>“Say words!” <br/><br/>The goddamn tip of his goddamn tongue moved back to the corner of his goddamn mouth, and that would not have been an issue if Lancelot wasn’t frozen a few feet away and Liam wasn’t grunting with almost startling regularity and Emma didn’t think before she pulled on the hilt of Killian’s sword. <br/><br/>He let go. </p>
<p>Of the sword, at least. Keeping a hold on her, Emma’s skirts were a fabric disaster, flying up and sailing out and she just managed to get the blade up in time. Her arm shook under the force of the sword swinging above her, but she also wasn’t currently being stabbed, and Killian was laughing, the <em> ass</em>, and the nearest Camelot guard looked appropriately scandalized. When Killian ducked down, grabbed the handle of the tiny dagger hidden in Emma’s boot, and threw it. </p>
<p>Directly into that same guard’s right thigh.</p>
<p>“There’s a box hidden in the back corner of my drawers,” Killian said, glancing up at Emma with another wholly obnoxious and equally attractive smile. “Has been for quite some time.”<br/><br/>“No.” <br/><br/>“No?” <br/><br/>“No,” she echoed. “That’s—but I...is that why you were so upset?” <br/><br/>“Well, anyone proposing to you, person I love more than just about anyone in the world—” <br/><br/>“—Hey,” Liam called, but Emma’s hands had minds of their own and he was admittedly fairly busy. Killian pulled her up to the next step. Away from the man currently bleeding all over the deck. </p>
<p>That did distract from the romance of it all. </p>
<p>“So,” Killian continued, “it could have been anyone, and I would have been furious. But, as you say, this wasn’t supposed to happen, and I’ve been carting this ring around for months and—”<br/><br/>“—Months,” Emma yelped. </p>
<p>“More than I’d like to admit to. It’s a very good ring, though. Deserved the proper moment.”<br/><br/>“You think that’s now?” <br/><br/>“I think I’d like to marry you very much, and would be willing to cause a cross-realm incident if I were allowed to do that.” <br/><br/>Whatever fluttered between Emma’s ribs wasn’t the magic she was used to. Was stronger, and brighter and somehow more true than either one of those things. She pushed back up on her toes, ignoring the ache in her calves and the snow-induced shiver, fingers pushing into Killian’s hair once she was close enough and— <br/><br/>“Liam!”</p>
<p>Killian blinked. More than once. Leaned back in understandable confusion, and tried to make sure Emma didn’t inadvertently stab him in the process. <br/><br/>“Not now,” he yelled back, sounding a decade younger and only passably annoyed that Emma and Killian were interrupting him. “Unless this about the magic and the wind and getting the hell out of here.” <br/><br/>“Could be, if you stop being a prat.” Laughing into the crook of Emma’s neck, Killian’s smile was still obvious. And warm. Lighting something more metaphorical in the center of Emma, until goosebumps rippled on her skin and magic rushed up her spine and Liam’s whole head rolled when he met her gaze. “We’d like to get married now, Captain Jones.” <br/><br/>“Now?” Liam balked. “Honestly, right now?” <br/><br/>“Could help, don’t you think? Can’t marry somehow else if I’m already married.” <br/><br/>Liam didn’t look convinced. Two more guards advanced on him — and they must have been jumping from the deck now, because the gangplank was nowhere near the surface of the water and Emma might have giggled. In anticipation, or something equally romantic. </p>
<p>“I think it’s the smartest thing we’ve ever done,” Killian said, a string of curses pouring out of Liam. Emma would have to remember some of them. </p>
<p>“Of course you do. Alright, I just—ah, hold on.” Disarming the closest man didn’t take much time, but it did allow a few more people to rush towards Killian and Lancelot was starting to thaw. Emma turned, pressing her back against Killian’s and trying to focus on the heat and the magic and the snow stopped for a moment. To make way for a burst of chilled wind, billowing the sails above them. “Do you,” Liam started, another sharp inhale as he draped himself over the helm, “Her Royal Highness Princess Emma of Misthaven, take Lieutenant Killian Jones to—”<br/><br/>An elbow hit her side when Killian brandished his sword again, her palms flipping back up to let magic ripple out and the next wave wasn’t as choppy as it should have been. Directed them, maybe. Into open water and away from the dock, and four men were rather suddenly lifted up by the magically-created wind and thrown, without much ceremony, off the ship. </p>
<p>“What color’s the stone?”  Emma asked. </p>
<p>Killian’s head dropped. Onto hers. “Blue.”<br/><br/>“Oh, you’re a romantic, you know that?” <br/><br/>“Only when it concerns you.”</p>
<p>Clearing his throat didn’t do much to recapture their attention, but Liam’s expression had turned decidedly captain and only slightly humorous. Most of his hair was plastered to his forehead, now. “Can I keep going, then?”<br/><br/>“By your leave, Captain,” Killian muttered. Emma threw a few more men back onto land. </p>
<p>“To be your lawfully wedded husband,” Liam finished. Turning the wheel, he waited for Emma’s response, but she didn’t respond quickly enough and—“That’s your line, Princess.”<br/><br/>Killian kissed her cheek. </p>
<p>Only Lancelot was left on deck. </p>
<p>“Oh, yes, yes, I do. Enthusiastically!”</p>
<p>Barking out a few more orders, Liam directed the Jewel away from the rest of Camelot’s nearby fleet, and none of those ships had fired on them, so at least Arthur had something resembling sense. “And do you, Lieutenant Killian Jones, take—”<br/><br/>“—Absolutely,” Killian interrupted, drawing the ire of his brother and his captain and the absolute devotion of Emma, crown princess of Misthaven. “I love you,” he added, “more than I knew I could.”</p>
<p>Wind whipped around them, Emma closing her eyes to let the words soak into her, settle under her skin and take root in the very center of her soul. She barely heard whatever Liam said next, the crew quick to respond anyway and she wasn’t all that surprised by the feel of Killian’s thumb under her chin. </p>
<p>“Once more,” Emma whispered. </p>
<p>Maybe not just the sun. Maybe a whole constellation, or a brand-new universe and there weren't really that many worthwhile trade options with Camelot anyway. </p>
<p>“I love you,” Killian said, loud enough that Emma could hear. No one else. Not when there was enough wind to nearly knock them over, and the kind of magic that rang out around them, dots of color hanging in the air when she tilted her head up, pulled him down and, once again, kissed the ever living daylights out of him. </p>
<p>To which Killian had absolutely no argument whatsoever. </p>
<p>“I love you too,” Emma whispered, only pulling away when Lancelot’s knees collided with the deck. “Sir Knight, have you met my husband yet?”<br/><br/>Liam groaned. “I didn’t say man and wife yet!” <br/><br/>“Worst officiant we could have gotten,” Killian muttered into Emma’s hair. “Say that again, though.” <br/><br/>“Husband?”</p>
<p>She’d think about the exact look on his face for far longer than she’d ever be willing to admit. Although <em> the rest of her life </em>did have a very good ring to it, and Lancelot hardly made any noise when Emma blinked him back to land. </p>
<p>“Man and wife,” Liam shouted, “I now pronounce you man and wife. May it save us from many longing looks in the future.”</p>
<p>Emma tilted her head. “Were you longing, Lieutenant?”<br/><br/>“Ardently,” Killian confirmed, pulling her hand up to kiss her knuckles again and she liked to imagine he meant to land where he did. Exactly where a ring would sit. “C’mon, Liam can take care of the rest.”</p>
<p>They didn’t bother double checking. </p>
<p>And the ring wasn’t just blue, was gorgeous and perfect and no one knocked on the door to Killian’s cabin all night, which she’d have to thank Liam for eventually because Ruby was already standing at the edge of the docks when the Jewel arrived in Misthaven a week and a half later. </p>
<p>“Good news travels fast,” she said, bypassing any greeting. “Your ears are red, Lieutenant.”<br/><br/>“Ruby, I—” Emma started, but that only got her a brusque head shake and crossed arms and the magic in her veins didn’t really ebb, but it might have shifted slightly. Into defense, and wholly rational reasoning, and Ruby’s lips twisted. </p>
<p>When her eyes fell to Emma’s left hand. <br/><br/>“Let’s go. They’re waiting.” <br/><br/>Taking longer than it should have to get to the throne room, Emma knew Liam trailed behind her and Killian, more than ready to take responsibility for his part in the realm’s most ridiculous royal wedding, and she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. Not when the last twelve days had felt like another person’s life, far too much smiling and far less secret kissing, and they kissed constantly. Much to the chagrin of Liam, but Emma thought she noticed him smiling a bit more too and—</p>
<p>The doors creaked, both of them opening in front of them and her parents were sitting on their thrones.</p>
<p>With crowns. <br/><br/>“Ah damn,” Emma breathed, Kllian's fingers tightening where they were twisted around hers. </p>
<p>Narrowing his eyes, her father didn’t look quite as angry as she expected. Possibly a little wary, like he was still trying to decide what to say, or how to say it, but then there was a clack of heels on marble and arms around Emma and Killian didn’t have a chance to extradite himself. From Her Majesty Queen Snow’s vice-like grip on the pair of them. </p>
<p>“Oh, congratulations,” she said, blinking back tears and Emma was breathing out of her mouth again. The hand Ruby moved didn’t do much to block the overall volume of her laugh. </p>
<p>Liam looked very close to passing out. </p>
<p>“Wha—what?” Emma stammered, and her mother’s smile widened. </p>
<p>“We’ve decided Arthur is a—” She glanced back at Emma’s father. “What was the word we used?”<br/><br/>“Cad,” he replied, both Jones brothers sounding like they were choking on their tongues. “An absolute cad, who deserves everything he gets after this and—” Taking a step forward, Killian stood up straighter, Emma’s chin jutting out. “Stand down Lieutenant,” her father advised, “I’m not going to reprimand you.” <br/><br/>“Much,” Ruby corrected. <br/><br/>“Well,  yes, much. Because, well—you did ask, didn’t you?”</p>
<p>Emma wasn’t just going to pass out. She must have been dreaming. Coming up with and forcing herself into some fantasy she’d imagined since she was fourteen, and that was the only explanation for the way Killian’s medals glistened. </p>
<p>“Aye, your majesty,” he said, “I did.”<br/><br/>“When?” Emma demanded, ignoring whatever sound Ruby was making. “That’s—before we went to Camelot?”</p>
<p>Her father nodded. “Well before, we were starting to wonder if he’d forgotten.”<br/><br/>“And while you obviously don’t need our permission to get married,” Emma’s mother added, “tradition’s harder to shake than we might like and...well, Lieutenant Jones followed it all to the letter. Now, what do we think about the solstice?” <br/><br/>“What about it?” <br/><br/>“Emma, darling, you can get married on a boat—” <br/><br/>“—Ship,” Liam and Killian corrected in tandem. </p>
<p>Her mother scrunched her nose. “Yes, yes, ship. But that pesky tradition does suggest we should have some sort of ball, and your father was rather disappointed he was robbed the chance to walk you down the aisle.”</p>
<p>Sighing was easier when her mouth was hanging open. In decidedly unprincess-like fashion, but Emma assumed most princesses didn’t get married on a ship with a sword in her hand, and her father’s arms were tight when she all but threw herself into his chest. </p>
<p>“Solstice,” she echoed, “sounds perfect.”</p>
<p>Also one her mother took as a challenge. Between dress fittings, and menu decisions, music approvals and trying to find shoes that didn’t threaten to break half of Emma’s toes, that one corner in that one hallway was becoming her favorite place. The same one she found herself in less than twenty-four hours before she was supposed to walk down that aisle, and she’d have to fix her hair before she returned to her rooms. </p>
<p>Most of it was rather mussed. </p>
<p>“Do you think weddings will become something of a solstice tradition for us?” Emma asked, trailing her finger across the collar of Killian’s shirt. He shivered. </p>
<p>“Could be worse.”<br/><br/>“Could it?” <br/><br/>“You could lose a sword fighting challenge.” <br/><br/>“Sounds suspiciously like you’re challenging me to a duel.” <br/><br/>Kissing her was almost a legitimate distraction, and the grand hall downstairs was already lined with ivy and holly and enough candles to cause a rather large inferno. It was the most beautiful thing Emma had ever seen. “Confident in my skills, that’s why,” Killian said. He was smiling. </p>
<p>Emma didn’t bother to double check. <br/><br/>“But,” he added, “I’d marry you as many times as I could.” <br/><br/>“Twice is probably enough, honestly.” <br/><br/>“Ah that’s good, if I have to try on any more outfits, I might do something unbecoming of my new station.” Laughing, Emma buried her face against hIm — tried to breathe him in, and it was impossible to be nervous when they’d already done this, but she might have been as greedy as she was stubborn and she didn’t anticipate sleeping much that night. “Although,” he added, “heard rumors that your dress is rather lovely.” <br/><br/>“That’s the adjective they used?” <br/><br/>“What would you suggest?” <br/><br/>“Incredible. Gorgeous. Steal  your breath, scandalize several dozen nobles when we inevitably kiss too long at the end of the ceremony.” <br/><br/>“I’m looking forward to that part.” <br/><br/>“Are you?” Emma whispered, still not nervous, but possibly a little hopeful and Killian didn’t need much convincing to prove his point. They continued to be absolutely excellent at kissing. </p>
<p>Each other, specifically.<br/><br/>“And to having my breath stolen,” he said, “Meet you at the end of the aisle, aye?” <br/><br/>Emma nodded. “Deal.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Should Auld Acquaintance be Forgot</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy New Year, everyone! I wish you all absolutely nothing but the absolute best going into 2021, a year filled with good fic, satisfying storylines on TV shows and lots of fictional characters making out. Today's festive prompt comes from @kmomof4 who asked for: “i don't wanna get up-- you're comfy." // "i'm cold. come closer." // "i love you a lot, but please stop trying to cook me dinner, you suck.”</p>
<p>I got all three in there! And that wraps up our festive prompts! As always, thank you for clicking and reading and being generally wonderful to me at all times, holiday or otherwise. Come hang out on <a href="http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a> if you're down.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Shit.”<br/><br/>“Merry Christmas.” <br/><br/>Rolling her eyes over the top of the phone in her hand, Ruby didn’t look particularly amused at the distinct lack of enthusiasm in Emma’s voice. That was something of a theme. For like—the last thirty-six hours, but also the majority of their relationship, and none this should have come as a surprise, only she’d had a lot of wine in the last forty-six minutes, and it might have been catching up with her. Was definitely catching up with her. </p>
<p>“How much did you pay for the garbage alcohol you’ve been shoving at me?” Emma asked archly, and she was only slightly worried about getting home. Her head felt muddled. Like there were too many thoughts, and this time of year always did that to her brain, and her consciousness, and at least eighty-two percent of this was Mary Margaret’s fault. </p>
<p>For deciding that they were going to have a party. </p>
<p>On New Year’s Eve. </p>
<p>Like complete cliches. </p>
<p>“I’ll have you know,” Ruby drawled, eyes dropping back to her phone and whatever noise it was making, “that I paid at least twelve dollars for—”<br/><br/>“—Lies,” Elsa yelled, and it was a testament their current situation that she’d raised her voice at all. Nothing like that ever happened, and the overall roll rate of Ruby’s eyes was going to give her a migraine. </p>
<p>Her phone made another noise. </p>
<p>“She’s lying to you,” Elsa added. “Straight to your face.”<br/><br/>Emma scrunched her nose. “What else is new?” <br/><br/>“Oh, I take offense to that,” Ruby cried, but she was almost too obviously distracted, and the inability of this conversation to be concise was starting to grate on Emma’s nerves. Or what remained of them. Maybe she was the Grinch. <br/><br/>No, that wasn’t right. The Grinch had an enlarged heart, which Emma certainly did not have — and that was nice and appropriately festive for the season, the Grinch, not her, and he had a dog. Emma didn’t have a dog. If she had a dog, there was no possible way she’d be annoyed as she was. </p>
<p>She’d still be staring down a dateless New Year’s Eve, but—</p>
<p>Whatever, honestly. </p>
<p>Her date, or lack thereof, was not important, and she was going to drink this entire bottle of Barefoot Moscato, price tag be damned, and then she was going to figure out some way to get home. Without falling over. </p>
<p>Also, the Grinch didn’t have a roommate. Unless you counted the dog, and Emma didn’t think Max could conceivably hold so many titles in a twenty-two minute animated Christmas special, and she imagined the Grinch was also not pining after his dog slash roommate slash stand-in reindeer. That’d be weird. </p>
<p>For a twenty-two minute animated Christmas special. </p>
<p>She’d never seen the Jim Carey version. Or that other one with Benedict whatever-his-name-is.</p>
<p>“Why are there so many versions of the Grinch?”<br/><br/>Ruby didn’t look at her. Her eyebrows moved, though. Lifted ever so slightly into her hairline, and Elsa’s glance wasn’t exactly subtle, and Emma needed to go home. </p>
<p>Away from dating apps and wine that was very likely going to give her one hell of a headache, and Killian would at least make sure she was vaguely hydrated before she collapsed on some sort of horizontal surface. She wasn’t going to be picky about which one, honestly. </p>
<p>“Expand on that for me,” Ruby said, lips twisted as soon as she stopped talking. Something was wrong. Well, more wrong. In an alcohol-saturated sort of way that included all those previously discussed mobile dating apps. </p>
<p>“There are so many Grinches,” Emma said. “You think that’s a commentary on society? Like as a whole? That we need to—”<br/><br/>“—Embrace the spirit of Christmas?” <br/><br/>“Because we as a general population are all assholes?” <br/><br/>“You’ve had too much wine.” <br/><br/>“Not a question,” Elsa mumbled, elbow bumping Emma’s shoulder when she perched on the edge of the sofa, and Ruby’s eyes were still doing that thing. Widening every now and then — a flash of understanding mixing in with surprise, and Emma wasn’t sure how many muscles were in a human thumb, but she figured all of Ruby’s were getting quite a workout, scrolling as quickly as they were. </p>
<p>“If I have,” Emma muttered, “it is entirely Ruby’s fault. Who buys pink Moscato and expects their guests not to drink the whole bottle?”<br/><br/>Elsa’s lips twitched. </p>
<p>“Seems to suggest you’re a guest, though,” Ruby said, “and that’s awfully prim and proper.”<br/><br/>“Are we neither prim nor proper?” <br/><br/>“Well, I did buy pink Moscato.”</p>
<p>Emma couldn’t argue with that. Mostly because she’d drank so much of the pink Moscato. “Ok, ok, forget the wine for two seconds. And the Grinch. Why were you making proclamations before? They were very loud and—”<br/><br/>“—Proclaimy?” <br/><br/>“That can’t possibly be a word.” <br/><br/>“It’s not,” Ruby promised, the overall force of her next inhale taking Emma by surprise. Like, she was preparing for something particularly bad. Watching the Grinch steal all of their presents. And the roast beast, or something. </p>
<p>Ruby couldn’t possibly be Cindy Lou Who in this metaphor. </p>
<p>“So…”<br/><br/>“So, uh—look at this.” <br/><br/>Thrusting her arm out, Emma leaned back out of instinct and misplaced self-preservation, and it took more than a few blinks for her vision to clear enough that— <br/><br/>“Oh, shit,” she breathed, Ruby’s soft hum of agreement or understanding or some other adjective that was wholly inappropriate for the situation echoing between her ears. One more blink. Two more. Forty-seven. </p>
<p>Nothing changed. The phone was still there — wobbling slightly because it seemed Ruby’s forearm strength was lacking just a bit, but the screen didn’t change, and Emma was certain this was somehow also Taylor Swift’s fault. For rerecording Love Story and letting Ryan Reynolds use it in that Match.com ad. </p>
<p>Although really that made it more Scooter whatever-his-last-name-was’s fault, for stealing all of Taylor Swift’s songs and being a noted and massive dick, and Emma’s inability to remember anyone’s last name was clearly something of a personality failing. </p>
<p>“Thoughts?” Ruby pressed. </p>
<p>At least twelve-thousand, but none of them seemed especially interested in being said out loud, and Emma’s tongue felt like it was simultaneously growing and dissolving in her mouth. None of it was particularly comfortable, what legitimately felt like cotton balls bursting out of her cheeks and making it difficult to breathe, and she should have lived in a cave. With her dog and the inexplicable set of antlers she owned to make that same dog look like a reindeer, and then she wouldn’t have to be staring at Killian Jones’ dating profile on goddamn Match.com eight days before a New Year’s Eve party she only marginally wanted to attend. </p>
<p>“Don’t people just use Tinder now?” </p>
<p>Emma’s voice did not sound like her own. Presumably because of the tongue thing and the cotton ball analogy, and she wondered if the Uber driver she was inevitably going to request would be especially annoyed by her desire to blast Taylor Swift in the backseat. </p>
<p>She’d give them five stars. </p>
<p>No matter what — because she wasn’t an asshole, but especially if they let Emma blast Taylor Swift in the backseat. </p>
<p>Ruby rolled her eyes. “You’re very old; you know that?” </p>
<p>“Buy me better wine.”<br/><br/>“Nuh uh, you’re an easy sell, Em. Get you some shitty—” <br/><br/>“—Oh, so we are admitting to the shittiness of the wine, then?” <br/><br/>“It did cost nine bucks,” Elsa mumbled, resting a hand on Emma’s shoulder because at some point she’d started to lean forward and she didn’t want to lean forward. Being any closer to that stupid profile was like playing with fire. </p>
<p>Her face was very warm. </p>
<p>“Only nine bucks, honestly?”<br/><br/>That eye roll came with a lifted left shoulder, and a look that almost felt like pity. For Emma’s face, and whatever was happening on it. “People use things other than Tinder. And, uh...well, he’s got a lot of this filled out.” <br/><br/>Blinking didn’t help. Couldn’t, probably. </p>
<p>Emma had never gone into cardiac arrest before, but the sinking feeling in her chest was sudden and a little jarring and she tried very hard to swallow down the wad of emotion currently taking up residence in the middle of her throat. Didn’t work. </p>
<p>Failed spectacularly, quite honestly. </p>
<p>“I don’t want to know,” she announced. “Whatever he put on there is his—”<br/><br/>“—There are pictures,” Ruby interrupted, and maybe Emma was just going into shock. Various body parts appeared to be shutting down systematically, while whatever kind of acid consistently lingered in the pit of her stomach shifted. In wave-type fashion, threatening to burn her pancreas and she was only vaguely confident in the location of her pancreas. </p>
<p>“I don’t care.”<br/><br/>“Lots of pictures.” <br/><br/>“Stop talking.” <br/><br/>“Lists all kinds of interests.” <br/><br/>“I know his interests.” <br/><br/>There was no possible way Emma’s jaw was going to be able to take much more of this. Tight enough to smash diamonds — or at least her molars, and she was a little worried she was going to bite her tongue in half sooner rather than later. “Did you know this was a thing?” Ruby asked, but there was a hint of demand to it and Emma didn’t have to turn to know Elsa’s expression morphed into thin-eyed warning. </p>
<p>“What Killian does or doesn’t do in the world of modern dating has nothing to do with me,” Emma said, only a little disappointed because she didn’t think people got multiple miracles in their lives and to having hers ensure her voice didn’t shake over those particular words in that particular order felt lame. </p>
<p>All things considered. </p>
<p>Scrunching her nose, Ruby’s nod lacked a certain sense of honesty. “Sure, sure, sure, well—” She shrugged. “—He’s here. Being available. Presumably for New Year’s, and…”</p>
<p>Emma waited for the rest. All the reasons she’d heard before, and her friends were convinced. Something about inevitable, and happily ever after, but that second part was mostly Mary Margaret and it was likely easier to believe in the fairy tale when you were living it. </p>
<p>Pessimism was also fairly lame. As far as defining traits went. </p>
<p>“What are you—” Elsa started, but then she was moving and her teeth clicked exactly five times, as soon as she looked at the screen, and Emma was not capable of dealing with any of this. Watching her friends gape at her, Ruby’s phone still held loosely in her hand, and neither one of them objected when she finally managed to get to her feet. </p>
<p>And the Uber driver didn’t offer to play any Taylor Swift, but Emma didn’t ask and she didn’t blast it in the backseat. </p>
<p>So, that felt like a victory. Which she desperately needed — to counteract the state of her pancreas and half a dozen other internal organs when her thumb hovered over the button, and it took at least two minutes and twelve seconds for Match.com to download. </p>
<p>She should have waited until she was on wifi. </p>
<hr/>
<p>To say that Emma’s relationship with Killian Jones was complicated would be something of an understatement. And she wouldn’t use the word relationship. </p>
<p>He was her friend. </p>
<p>Her very good looking friend, with stupid eyes that regularly flashed at her like he was too aware of the mush-like state it sent her into, and he was friends with her brother, and once upon a time she’d briefly considered hating him, but that never really stuck and he made hot chocolate better than anyone she knew. Refused to use the prepackaged mix. Did something on the oven that Emma didn’t entirely understand, and never trusted herself to try on her own, and Killian was never late with his half of the rent. </p>
<p>Or any of the utilities. </p>
<p>Living together was a decision born of convenience and the extra room Killian had once Will moved out, but it also made a lot of sense and it was good. Really good. Would have been great if Emma wasn’t pining after him and his stupid eyes like some lovelorn idiot, but she had gotten almost impossibly good at rationalizing the whole thing in the last few years, and—</p>
<p>“Shit, shit, shit,” she chanted, slumped in the corner of the couch with her knees threatening to impale her chin and there must have been a record for frustrated cursing while staring at a roommate's dating profile. She’d definitely passed it, like, seven minutes ago. </p>
<p>Scrolling down only led to scrolling back up, twisting her lower lip between her teeth while staring at photos and lists and options she was sure came from some AI or relationship-type algorithm and coming to terms with the end of the world was harder than she expected it to be.  </p>
<p>At least the end of her love life. </p>
<p>Of which there wasn’t much to begin with, so it probably wasn’t very hard for the whole thing to topple over, but Emma was feeling especially melodramatic and they needed to buy some WD-40. For their very squeaky door. </p>
<p>“Hey,” Killian said, shrugging out of his jacket and it was apparently snowing out. Flakes dusted his shoulder, clung to several strands of hair, and Emma couldn’t melt into the couch. They couldn’t afford to buy another one. “That can’t be good for your spine.”<br/><br/>“Are you worried about my spine?” <br/><br/>“A little. But you’ve planted a flag in that corner of the couch, so—” <br/><br/>“—I am on vacation,” Emma argued, not quite able to get the edge she wanted in her voice and his eyes did that thing. Sparkled and got bluer, like that was something eyes were even capable of and the fluttering in her stomach felt like a betrayal of the highest order. </p>
<p>Humming, Killian didn’t bother brushing the snow out of his hair before he walked forward, falling onto the other end of the couch and pulling Emma’s sock-covered feet into his lap. “Are they any cookies left?”<br/><br/>“Absolutely not.”</p>
<p>“I’m going to tell Mary Margaret you’re a cookie glutton and—”<br/><br/>“—Vacation,” she cut in, pausing between every syllable. For emphasis. And to guarantee one side of his mouth tugged up. </p>
<p>“So I’ve heard. Whatcha you doing?”<br/><br/>Nodding at her hand, Emma had almost forgotten she was still holding her phone and all the evidence on its screen, and subtlety was not one of her more obvious talents. She nearly dropped the stupid thing four different times, trying to shove it under the couch cushion like Killian wasn’t staring at her with obvious amusement in his gaze and that was somehow worse than anything else that had happened in the two days since she’d downloaded the app that was very clearly designed to drive her insane.</p>
<p>Sixteen guys had messaged her already. </p>
<p>Maybe that was a compliment. Emma didn’t think so, though. </p>
<p>She couldn’t believe she had to make a profile. To stalk her roommate. And his interests. There were a lot of interests on Killian’s Match.com profile. </p>
<p>“Nothing.”<br/><br/>“Nothing,” he echoed, disbelief hanging from every letter. Like snowflakes. Ruin-Emma’s-life snowflakes, and none of the muscles in her neck were particularly happy with her ensuing nod. “It’s a medical miracle that your feet haven’t fallen off.” <br/><br/>“Do those two things go together?” <br/><br/>Laughing, Killian shook his head and held up his arm. Emma narrowed her eyes. “I’m freezing,” he explained, “and you’ve already commandeered all the blankets.” <br/><br/>“No one else was home.” <br/><br/>“Makes them all fair game then, huh?” <br/><br/>“Did Will ask yet?” <br/><br/>His lips twisted at her obvious conversation deflection, but he didn’t lower his arm either and it was very easy to move. Curl against his side and threaten several of Killian’s body parts with the state of her knees, and Emma did her best not to breathe too obviously when his fingers wrapped around her shoulder. “No,” Killian sighed, “the bastard. He’s been carting that ring around for weeks, trying to find the perfect moment and—” <br/><br/>“—That’s kind of nice, don’t you think?”<br/><br/>“Eating all of those cookies is turning you into a Mary Margaret-level sap.” <br/><br/>“Oh, that’s rude.” <br/><br/>Killian’s chest shook when he laughed, and Emma knew it wasn’t just wishful thinking — his lips grazing the top of her hair, because as much as they weren’t a thing, this was and had been and even the idea that it wouldn’t always was more than enough to alter the pattern of her pulse. “An observation, that’s all,” he murmured, warm breath that left goosebumps on her skin and a heart with Grinch-like tendencies and Emma closed her eyes. </p>
<p>Strictly speaking, she didn’t have much experience with shoulders and their proclivity to being rested on, but she liked to believe Killian’s was one of the more comfortable out there. Her head fit very well, at least. </p>
<p>“I’ve got twenty-seven bucks on him asking at the party,” Killian said, “but Locksley thinks he’s just going to lose any sense of self-control and blurt it out before, I just—”<br/><br/>“—Am something of a romantic.” <br/><br/>He smiled. She heard it. Without looking up. Felt it too, quite possibly. In her soul, and her pancreas and she had to figure out where her goddamn pancreas was. </p>
<p>So as to avoid any lingering after-effects from its continued failure. </p>
<p>Emma’s phone dinged. </p>
<p>Again. Multiple times, in quick succession — and she should have turned off notifications for that stupid app, but she wasn’t really using it for its intended purpose and Killian was staring at her. With a look that made it all too clear he knew what was going on. </p>
<p>That didn’t make her feel any better. </p>
<p>“Ruby said she was thinking about bringing someone,” he muttered, “to, uh—to the thing. The New Year’s thing.”<br/><br/>Stammering over the words made them worse, somehow. Killian’s eyes kept flickering towards Emma’s phone, and its spot on the floor because it must have fallen on the floor and of course it fell on the floor. For maximum absurdity.</p>
<p>“Call it a thing again.”<br/><br/>“If Mary Margaret buys garbage champagne, I’m going to be really frustrated.” <br/><br/>Emma’s cheeks ached. While smiling. “I don’t think she’d do that. It’d be a professional discourtesy to you, right?” <br/><br/>“Right,” Killian agreed, “but, I uh—” <br/><br/>“You?”</p>
<p>The air shifted. Crackled with electricity Emma knew she was imagining, and want she was only barely managing to temper and if Will did propose to Belle on New Year’s Eve she refused to be held accountable for her emotional reaction. She’d totally cry. </p>
<p>Ruby would never let her hear the end of that.</p>
<p>Shaking his head brusquely, Killian’s grip tightened around Emma’s ankle. She had no idea he was holding her ankle — fingers wrapped all the way around the joint until the tips threatened to touch because apparently his fingers were that long, and she’d probably only obsess about that for like the next few years, or so. Which seemed reasonable. </p>
<p>“Anyone good?” he asked, low and gruff and whatever was back in the middle of her throat did not appear intent on leaving any time soon. No matter how many times Emma swallowed. </p>
<p>Or how often Killian’s eyes flickered. Towards her throat. <br/><br/>“What?” <br/><br/>He jerked his head. Towards her phone, while his thumb tapped out a rhythm Emma didn’t think he was trying to keep. “Good. On the uh—well, I didn’t know you’d...Ruby didn’t mention…” <br/><br/>“If Ruby was talking trash about the apps I may or may not have downloaded—” <br/><br/>“—It’s making a shit ton of noise, Swan. Let’s not act like you haven’t downloaded things.”</p>
<p>Flinching the way she did only guaranteed that Emma’s spine collided with the arm of their couch, but she was at least less inclined to melt and she supposed romantic beggars could not be choosers. “Yuh huh,” she said, “and you’re well acquainted with the noises and the reasons behind the noise?”<br/><br/>More crackling. Tension hung from invisible molecules and made sure every snowflake evaporated, disappearing as suddenly as if they had never been there at all, and Emma would eventually be disappointed she didn’t move her feet.</p>
<p>The idea never even crossed her mind, honestly. </p>
<p>That probably wasn’t important. </p>
<p>“You’re avoiding my question.”<br/><br/>“Because it’s a garbage question,” Emma grumbled, “and obviously not. It’s—well, the whole thing’s a wasteland of bastard idiots who think messages about how often they get action is something I’d be interested in and—what?” <br/><br/>Eyes widening to an almost comical size, a muscle in Killian’s temple threatened to jump out of his head. “Guys are messaging you?” <br/><br/>“That’s the point, isn’t it?” <br/><br/>She was the idiot bastard. Emphasis on the idiot. None of this was supposed to happen, and Emma didn’t want her roommate that she was quite possibly in love with thinking any of the things that he was obviously thinking, but he also hadn’t admitted to his own profile yet and she wasn’t sure she could cope with that anyway, so— <br/><br/>“Right, right, right,” Killian chanted, more nodding and blinking and tapping. In perfect rhythm. “Did you call them idiot bastards?” <br/><br/>“You don’t think that’s creative enough?” <br/><br/>Exhaling against her made sure Emma’s goosebumps lingered for a few more minutes, and she didn’t have any intention of moving, but it was nice that his arm tightened the way it did. “Well-deserved moniker, actually. You want some hot chocolate?”</p>
<p>And just like that—it was fine. Well, maybe not fine, but at last fine adjacent, and something inching closer to normal, and Killian kissed her temple again before he stood up. </p>
<p>She didn’t pick up her phone until she went to bed, dragging every blanket they owned behind her down the hallway. </p>
<hr/>
<p>On the ever-growing list of problems Emma had during a week when problems were supposed to be non-existent, Killian's Match.com profile had very easily cemented itself at the top of the list. </p>
<p>It didn’t match — her, at least. Every single thing he was apparently looking for in some sort of potential life partner was the exact opposite of every single thing that made Emma her. Musical tastes were diametrically opposed, movies she’d never once seen him watch in the legitimate decades she’d known him were praised with the kind of adjectives even Robert Ebert would scoff at. The pictures were good, but Emma knew that was more a result of her attraction to her roommate than anything else, and he said he liked people who cooked. </p>
<p>She couldn’t cook. </p>
<p>She tried. </p>
<p>Twenty-four hours after the weird couch incident, which was a name only Emma was using, she was sure, and the smoke alarm had gone off and—<br/><br/>“What the hell are doing?” Killian cried, rushing out of the bathroom with a towel pressed against drenched strands of hair and water falling in rivulets down his chest and the world must hate Emma. On principle or something. </p>
<p>She was so disappointed she was positive she reeked with it. <br/><br/>Mary Margaret had asked about it. With only a minimal amount of tact, which probably should have been a sign because as aggressive as she was becoming when it came to the New Year’s Eve party planning, Mary Margaret was generally fairly good about approaching Emma’s minimal and inconsistent dating tendencies with metaphorical gloves. </p>
<p>This was Ruby’s fault. And Taylor Swift. Whose new album was very good, and made for perfect and consistent pining music. </p>
<p>“Cooking,” Emma said, like that was an explanation and not an excuse and she was definitely using too many of her personal miracles. “Nothing caught on fire!”</p>
<p>Lolling his head to the side, Killian leveled her with an exasperated expression. Brows pinched together and that shade of blue wasn’t quite as sharp, but was still somehow almost amused and she didn’t think the oven was supposed to make that noise. It was very loud. “Lack of flames is not a sign of success, love,” he said, “and it’s—ah, fuck.”</p>
<p>The smoke alarm was louder than the oven. </p>
<p>Blasting through their apartment and, Emma was sure, through the entire building, the beep hit its rhythmic stride quickly, so she reacted like an adult to the whole situation by gritting her teeth and squeezing her eyes shut. Killian breezed by her, swinging open another squeaky door and fumbling through what sounded like several dozen boxes and he cursed. More than once. <br/><br/>“Why do we not own a broom?”</p>
<p>Emma cracked open one eye. “We do, I—”<br/><br/>“—Well, I can’t find it, and—” Her other eye flew open, in perfect tandem with the air she hadn’t been trying to hold and the towel had fallen to Killian’s feet. Making it even more obvious that he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and was still decidedly damp, half a dozen pairs of boots strewn haphazardly at his feet. “Is this the wrong closet?”</p>
<p>Emma nodded. </p>
<p>Their neighbors must hate them. Rightfully so. </p>
<p>“We definitely own a broom,” she promised, “we’re not savages. We clean.”<br/><br/>“I clean.” <br/><br/>“Because no one is as worried about the state of the bathroom sink as you are, but I am more than capable of sweeping things.” <br/><br/>He tilted his head, strands of hair shifting in a way that made Emma drift closer to the precipice of insanity and Mary Margaret had thought that one guy on the app looked nice. That was the word she used. Nice. Like Emma deserved the sentiment, and a guy who wore a different plaid shirt in every one of his posted photos. </p>
<p>Graham was probably very nice. <br/><br/>He also wasn’t the guy standing in front of her — with that hair and those droplets of water, and if the smoke alarm deafened both of them then they’d never be able to listen to Taylor Swift. “I swept the floor before,” Emma mumbled, all too aware of the heat inching up her spine. While Killian kept staring at her, almost as if he was taking inventory or at least stock, memorizing every shift of her muscles. They kept twitching. The fuckers. </p>
<p>“Was there a reason for that?”<br/><br/>Emma shrugged. </p>
<p>“Swan.”<br/><br/>Only one shoulder lifted, that time — Killian crowding her space, and the smoke alarm was still blaring, but it sounded a little halfhearted, like it was also aware of what idiots they both were. “This was not the first cooking defeat I’ve suffered today,” she whispered, staring at her feet and that only made it easier to notice when he was practically standing on top of her. Warmth radiated off him, fingers fluttering at his side. </p>
<p>Emma swallowed. Still didn’t help. </p>
<p>“Alright,” Killian said softly, “c’mere.”</p>
<p>Saying that what happened next happened quicker than Emma expected it to, also suggested that Emma expected it to happen at all, which was one of the bigger lies she’d told in the last week or so, and she was really growing a metric shit ton of lies, so that was especially impressive and she yelped very loudly. As soon as hands gripped her hips, lifting her off the floor and directing her underneath the questionably loud smoke detector. </p>
<p>“This could wake the dead,” she proclaimed, shouting the words because if they were going to descend into total farce, then she was really going to lean into it.</p>
<p>Killian’s head fell to her stomach. If she died right there, she hoped he didn’t drop her. Although, she’d also be dead, so—she probably wouldn’t notice. </p>
<p>“Just turn it off, love.”<br/><br/>“What?” <br/><br/>“What part of that was confusing?” <br/><br/>“Find a broom,” Emma demanded, twisting in a wholly misplaced attempt to get back to the floor. Didn’t work. Only made Killian’s grip tighten, if anything and she probably imagined the soft groan he let out between barely parted lips. </p>
<p>“See,” he grunted, “that makes it sound like we don’t have a broom, and—” Adjusting her, one of her legs twisted around his, something Emma was going to claim as instinct and not that same want that was another one of her more defining characteristics, and he definitely exhaled. Loudly. And directly into her t-shirt. “—Swan, I really need you to fix this, love.”<br/><br/>“Dropping me will only end in you getting kicked.” <br/><br/>“You’re going to kick me while laying on the ground?” <br/><br/>“Maybe I’ll land perfectly on my feet,” she argued, another shift and more groaning and her ego grew. Like a heart. Of Grinch-esque proportions, and no. That was wrong. She couldn’t cook. </p>
<p>She hated all that music. </p>
<p>Despised The Godfather, on some sort of fundamental level and Kay deserved better than Michael Corleone, even if that version of Al Pacino was almost kind of attractive, but—<br/><br/>“Swan,” Killian ground out, twisting his neck. That only made his forehead dig into her stomach, and just below her ribs, and Emma simply could not cope with that. </p>
<p>Using his shoulder as leverage, and keeping her leg exactly where it was, she still had to stretch her arm out and it took far more movement than either one of them could apparently handle silently for her to press the button that fixed everything. </p>
<p>Relatively speaking, at least. </p>
<p>He didn’t lift his head immediately. Or drop her. That probably wasn’t a metaphor. </p>
<p>Emma’s metaphors regularly sucked, anyway. </p>
<p>“Pizza or Chinese?”</p>
<p>Chuckling into her stomach, Killian’s laugh warmed her from the inside out and kept the goosebumps there and she’d kind of forgotten he was shirtless. Idiot bastard, that was her.</p>
<p>Graham Humbert had owned more plaid shirts than anyone Emma had ever seen. </p>
<p>“Order extra egg rolls, and I’m in,” Killian said, finally working her back to the ground and they didn’t move. They stood there. Staring at each other, and conducting more inventory, and Emma could only imagine the penance she’d have to do for keeping her stomach in its correct spot. </p>
<p>“Deal.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>“She’s in love with him.”<br/><br/>“I’m not.” <br/><br/>“Say that again,” Ruby challenged, ignoring Mary Margaret’s reproach-filled tongue click, and the overall circumference of Elsa’s eyes and Emma was neither offended nor surprised. She was also a liar, but that was neither here nor there.</p>
<p>“Doesn’t have to,” Elsa muttered over the top of her half-empty glass. “It basically broadcasts out of her.”<br/><br/>Emma’s jaw dropped. “Traitor.” <br/><br/>“What? It’s—I mean, have you asked him about it?” <br/><br/>“About a dating profile I’m not supposed to have seen—” <br/><br/>“—Wait, was it a secret?” Mary Margaret asked, dropping her voice like they weren’t sitting in her apartment with bags filled with metallic New Year’s crowns strewn around them. Ruby was already wearing one. </p>
<p>“Which part?” Ruby asked. “How in love Emma is with Jones or whether or not we were acknowledging his shitty dating profile?” </p>
<p>“Either or, I guess.”<br/><br/>“No,” Emma responded, harsher than she intended and regular Moscato was not as good as its pink counterpart. “And,” she added, gesturing wildly towards Mary Margaret’s scrunched-up expression, “your face is going to get stuck like that.” <br/><br/>“Who’ll want to take pictures with you then?” Ruby grinned. <br/><br/>Sticking out her tongue, Mary Margaret gulped down the rest of her wine. “My husband, obviously. Are you actually bringing this Dorothy person?” <br/><br/>It wasn’t the smoothest transition, but Emma appreciated it all the same and Elsa squeezed her hand in that knowing way that made things seem a little less depressing. </p>
<hr/>
<p>They took the batteries out of the smoke detector a day later. </p>
<p>Not the safest thing they’d ever done, but Emma kept trying to cook and failing spectacularly and she was certain the people at the Chinese restaurant fourteen blocks away knew their order based solely on the sound of her voice when she called. </p>
<hr/>
<p>“Does this have a name?”</p>
<p>Slumped as she was over the edge of the bar, Emma barely noticed the lift in Killian’s eyebrows, but that also might have been her tendency to be preoccupied with his mouth and he was smiling at her. Wide. Meaningful—ly. </p>
<p>Distractingly. </p>
<p>At some point that afternoon, she’d decided she needed to respond to Graham’s messages. Or, well—keep responding. There’d been some conversation, what might have been construed as flirting if Emma’s thumbs didn’t keep cramping up while they flew across her phone’s keyboard, but that definitely wasn’t a sign either, and the overall lightness in her body was likely a direct result of whatever blue-colored alcoholic concoction Killian had put in front of her forty-seven minutes before. There were gummy—things floating in it. </p>
<p>Or there had been. </p>
<p>She’d eaten them. </p>
<p>Her mouth felt a little numb. </p>
<p>“What do you think we should call it?”</p>
<p>Propping her chin on her hand made Emma wobble a bit, Killian’s lips twitching again. Idiot bastard <em> asshole</em>. Poor Graham. She was a jerk. And his eyes were getting brighter. </p>
<p>Killian’s. Not Graham’s. </p>
<p>She had no idea what Graham’s eyes did. </p>
<p>“Are you serving me unnamed alcohol?” Emma asked, and she was sure she did not slur her words the way it sounded. </p>
<p>He shrugged. </p>
<p>And Will’s reaction was far too loud, tossing a towel over his back before he draped himself across Killian’s back, hooking his own chin over that slightly lifted shoulder. “He’s showing off, Em. That’s all it is. Are you going to die, though?”<br/><br/>“I don’t think so,” she wavered, but that almost felt like another lie and she was really stacking those up. Not particularly festive. </p>
<p>Good thing the holiday season was nearly over. </p>
<p>“Your tongue is blue.”<br/><br/>Snapping her head made the world flip on its axis, the force of Killian’s smile the only thing that kept Emma tethered to this plane of reality and she couldn’t slump much further. Not without the bar digging into her stomach, and she was one of only a few lingering customers clinging to their drinks before last call. She hadn’t planned on showing up there — the day before New Year’s Eve, but her thumbs really did deserve a break and she couldn’t order more food, so Emma’s feet were moving before she’d entirely considered what a bad idea it was and then she was drinking experimental alcohol and laughing at Killian’s pitiful jokes, and maybe she’d just sleep for a few minutes. </p>
<p>At the bar. </p>
<p>Four seats away from Leroy the regular. </p>
<p>“Don’t move so quickly, Swan,” Killian said, a hand finding her cheek and that was fine. Totally fine. Great, even. Super—</p>
<p>Califragilisticexpialidocious. </p>
<p>So, she was more drunk than she’d been. Like, ever. </p>
<p>“Your fault,” she mumbled. Burrowing further into his palm was not an option Emma had, so naturally that’s exactly what she did and Will made another noise. “Something to add, Scar—” Emma paused, lifting an impatient finger when both men in front of her dared to laugh. “—Let, you jerky jerkface.”<br/><br/>“Jerky jerkface, huh?” Will laughed. <br/><br/>“Heard me. Married yet?” <br/><br/>“You asking?” <br/><br/>“Dick.” <br/><br/>Snickering, Will hadn’t really moved off Killian — despite attempts otherwise, and Emma’s jealousy was as out of place as her nuzzling, but she’d also seen the ring and it was far prettier than she thought Will was entirely capable of. So hating him in the moment seemed entirely reasonable, actually. </p>
<p>“You will find out whenever else does, kid,” Will guaranteed. “And there were at least four different types of rum in that swill he gave you.”<br/><br/>Killian sighed. “Swill’s got such a negative connotation.” <br/><br/>“Big words,” Emma said. Tried, at least. None of the letters sounded like individual ones, rather just one enormous syllable that barely fit between her lips. </p>
<p>Humming, Will untwisted his limbs from Killian, a different hand finding her cheek and the strands of hair that were hanging over her eyes and she scowled when he tapped her chin. “Trying to impress you,” Will repeated intently.<br/><br/>“‘Sa code or something?” <br/><br/>“I see you took care of the gummy worms too.” <br/><br/>Emma nodded. She tried to nod. Her hair moved, so she figured that meant some part of her body moved, but she was rather quickly losing control of her limbs and only dimly aware of Killian ushering everyone else out of the bar. “Who put gummy worms in a drink?” <br/><br/>“Ah, that was actually almost coherent,” Will grinned, “good for you and your ability to speak like a normal human being.” <br/><br/>“I didn’t bet on you.” <br/><br/>“And?” <br/><br/>“And,” Emma said, snapping her jaw on the word, “that makes me your best friend. In the whole entire universe.” <br/><br/>“Vast.” <br/><br/>She made a noise when she nodded again, but Emma couldn’t imagine what it actually was — only that it kind of scraped at her throat, and possibly her soul and Will’s smirk wasn’t as good as Killian’s. Probably because she didn’t want to make out with Will. </p>
<p>That would have annoyed Belle.</p>
<p>“Is he—” Emma’s brain couldn’t keep up. Thoughts rushed through her, firing synapses that were only passably functional, and the lights from the jukebox across the room were starting to float in her vision. Pressing her fingers into her cheek, Emma knew the skin there moved, but she also could not feel a single thing and—“You’re laughing at me.”<br/><br/>Will’s head bobbed. His shoulders shook. There was no one else in the bar anymore.</p>
<p>“I am,” he said, “but you’re also sloshed, so I’m willing to give you a pass. And no.”<br/><br/>“No?” <br/><br/>“No, your boyfriend isn’t bringing someone who isn’t you to the party.”</p>
<p>Her head hurt. Ached, even through the haze she’d only recently evolved into, and Emma hated bowling. Was absolutely God awful at it. The kind of awful that required bumpers whenever they’d gone, and they used to go when they were kids. On New Year’s Eve afternoon, some tradition that Ruth had come up with and David honored, even after he and Mary Margaret had segued into happily ever after, and Emma could count on one hand how many times she’d crested the 100-point mark. </p>
<p>She felt oddly similar now. </p>
<p>Playing a game she wasn’t very good at, with more gutter balls than any self-respecting adult should record. Eight pounds of cylindrical force kept rolling through her, threatening anything in its path, but not hitting what it was supposed to, and she also could have eaten an entire tub of bowling alley snacks right now. </p>
<p>“Why are fries better in a bowling alley? Like, better than anywhere else.” </p>
<p>Will’s eyes narrowed. “Better than Shake Shack?”</p>
<p>“‘S’totally different.”<br/><br/>“You said better than anywhere else.” <br/><br/>“I’m very drunk.” <br/><br/>“Yeah,” Will agreed, “I know that. Which—I honestly don’t think he was trying to get you drunk, but I was not kidding about the impressing, and no.” <br/><br/>“Circles make me dizzy.” <br/><br/>“Because of the alcohol.” Emma widened her eyes when he didn’t say anything else, and people’s inability to have concise conversations with her was becoming one of her least favorite things. Will sighed. Leaned over the counter to kiss the crown of her head and give her shoulder a squeeze that was oddly similar to Elsa’s, and David was going to be very upset he hadn’t gotten the chance to make her feel better too. “You two are the dumbest people alive,” Will said. “It’s important to me that you know that.”</p>
<p>Blinking continued to be one of Emma’s less impressive reactions, but she was stuck on that bowling ball metaphor and Killian’s arm around her shoulders made it impossible to talk. </p>
<p>“You ready, love?”<br/><br/>Whatever face Will made was equal parts obnoxious and—no, just obnoxious. Wide eyes met an even wider smile, like he knew the secrets of the universe and its inherent romanticism, and wasn’t particularly interested in sharing. </p>
<p>“For?”<br/><br/>Laughing, Killian pulled Emma to her feet, pinning her to his side and Will’s expression didn’t change. Settled, if anything. When she wasn’t quite so drunk she was going to kick him in the shins. As hard as she possibly could. </p>
<p>“We’re leaving, love,” Killian said, and there was at least part of her that was smart enough to pick on repeat endearments. And then promptly cling to them. In her swollen heart. </p>
<p>“Make sure you brush your tongue too tonight, Em,” Will advised, “otherwise that blue is going to stick.”</p>
<p>Saluting left her more off-balance than she’d been all night, laughter echoing behind them as Killian pulled the door shut and he’d ordered them a car. Emma honestly had no idea how they got in said car, but then they were moving and she was only slightly dizzy and he—</p>
<p>“Smell really good.”<br/><br/>Something rumbled. Low in Killian’s chest, like it was coming from the very center of him and alcohol clearly made her far more existential. It was annoying. “That so?” <br/><br/>“Mmhm,” Emma mumbled, before she could stop herself and she both wanted to forget this and remember it for every waking hour of the rest of her life. “Like—I don’t know, it’s...you smell warm. Good, it’s good.” <br/><br/>“There was tequila in that drink too.” <br/><br/>“Were you trying to poison me?”</p>
<p>He made another noise, slumping next to her, which made it even easier for Emma to touch as much of him as possible and he didn’t object. She didn’t think he would. Ever, actually. </p>
<p>God, poor Graham. </p>
<p>She was the <em> worst</em>. </p>
<p>“Not as such, no,” Killian said, “just thinking we might be able to add something new and—” His shoulder shifted under her cheek, Emma’s soft hum of disapproval making him smile. She still didn’t check. “—Not that we haven’t been making money, but...people gotta have a schtick.”<br/><br/>“You have a stick.” <br/><br/>“Try that again, love.” <br/><br/>Hat trick. </p>
<p>David played hockey when he was a kid. </p>
<p>“Whatever,” Emma groaned, “just—I’m saying it’s a good bar.”<br/><br/>“Where I smell good.” <br/><br/>“Both you and Scarlet are dicks.”</p>
<p>No sound. Nothing except engines, and there could only be one engine in a car, Emma was fairly positive, so that didn’t really make sense and Killian stared ahead when she tilted her head up. “Sometimes,” Killian admitted softly, “but, uh—like I said, just trying to get something that might help us a little more and weddings are expensive, y’know?”</p>
<p>Thinking about melting as often as she was, was starting to become patently ridiculous. </p>
<p>“You’re trying to come up with ridiculous bachelorette party drinks—”<br/><br/>“—Or any party really.”</p>
<p>Emma rapped her knuckles against his chest. “To help pay for Scarlet’s wedding?”<br/><br/>“Maybe.” <br/><br/>“Definitely?” <br/><br/>Catching her around the wrist, Killian’s lips brushed Emma’s bent knuckles. Melting seemed inevitable at that point. And she couldn’t understand — all over again. How easy it was. To smile, and swoon just a bit and he was such a good guy. </p>
<p>With such God awful interests in the opposite sex. </p>
<p>The world was a joke. Happy Holidays. </p>
<p>“You’re not getting ready with Lucas or Elsa or anything tomorrow, are you?”</p>
<p>Of all the questions she definitely wasn’t prepared for, that was at the bottom of the list. Emma was not actually making any of these lists. “This isn’t prom.”<br/><br/>“No, no,” he stammered, color on his cheeks, “I know it’s not. I just—maybe we could go to the apartment together.” <br/><br/>“My brother’s?” <br/><br/>“Yes or no question, Swan.”</p>
<p>Huh. No grand slam, then. </p>
<p>“Yeah, ok,” she said, letting her head drop back to his shoulder and Emma wasn’t sure why it sounded like he exhaled. In something almost like relief. Eyes fluttering the way they were, she must have imagined it, another ridiculous metaphor and even dumber analogy and her groan was especially pitiful when the car stopped. No way her stomach was going to stay where it was supposed to for the rest of the night. <br/><br/>Mumbled voices drifted around Emma, shadows that almost resembled their building, but that would mean she had to get up and— <br/><br/>“No, no, no, you’re comfortable.” <br/><br/>The arm around her waist tightened, pulling her across leather seats and barely moving when her head crashed against his chest. She jumped when the door slammed shut behind her, dragging her feet as they marched towards stairs and Emma genuinely had no idea how they got up those stairs, only that they did and another door closed and Killian didn’t say anything before directing her to the couch, pulling her boots off her feet and letting Emma fall back asleep against his side. </p>
<hr/>
<p>Being hungover on New Year’s Eve was one of the crueler jokes the universe had played on her in the last week or so. </p>
<p>All of Emma hurt, muscles she hadn’t been aware she was in possession of seemingly rising up in revolt of her very existence, and she couldn’t really turn her head. Which endlessly delighted Ruby in a way that was making her reconsider their friendship, and Killian kept glancing in their direction. His arm bumped Emma’s no less than twenty-four times in the car over. </p>
<p>And for as much as she wanted to crawl under several mountains of blankets and consider all her romantic shortcomings, something in the back of Emma’s mind preened a bit under his flitting gaze, trying not to meet his eyes too often. Only to fail every time — if Ruby’s laughter was any indication, and Will had groaned several times, but he also didn’t appear to be engaged yet and Emma had apologized to Graham that afternoon. </p>
<p>Through text, though. So it only kind of counted. She wasn’t even sure parts of the messages were English. Her head felt like it was going to snap open, which made the champagne she was practically shotgunning at that point a very bad decision, but she’d been on a roll on that front, so she had no intention of altering course and it was nearly midnight.</p>
<p>“This is depressing,” Ruby announced. “He’s staring again.”<br/><br/>Emma grimaced. “Pick a sentiment.” <br/><br/>“Suggests his obvious pining is not as depressing as yours. Wrong, it’s equally stupid.” <br/><br/>“You saw the stuff.” <br/><br/>“Call it stuff again, makes you sound grown up.”</p>
<p>Rolling her eyes was an impossibility if Emma didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself in front of her brother and some of the teachers from Mary Margaret’s school, and Ruby’s date was nice. Had a lot of pictures of her dog on her phone, but nice all the same. <br/><br/>“The Godfather, Ruby,” Emma hissed, “that’s—that’s almost as bad as Fight Club.” <br/><br/>“Ok, liking The Godfather is not even in the same realm of dating red flags as idolizing Tyler Durden is. Suggesting otherwise is stupid.” <br/><br/>“Full of opinions, huh?” <br/><br/>“Bursting,” Ruby emphasized, “and I don’t know. This is—it’s weird.”</p>
<p>More blinking. Honestly, she was a mess. The teachers kept hogging space on the couch. Killian smiled when he looked at Emma, that time. “Elaborate on that.”<br/><br/>“You said it yourself. You—I mean, this obviously requited love was based almost entirely on mutual understanding and that’s why I don’t understand why—” <br/><br/>“—Wait, wait, what the fuck are you talking about?”</p>
<p>“Are you the dumbest person alive?”<br/><br/>“You’ve been talking to Scarlet,” Emma accused, but Ruby’s head shake was almost immediate and that was kind of a knock to her confidence. </p>
<p>“No, this is just our general opinion of you. Both of you, really. I—are you not almost painfully aware of how in love Killian is with you? Em, he is staring at you. Like, right now. Blatantly. Obviously. Some other adverb.”<br/><br/>“Impressive English skills.” <br/><br/>Ruby ignored her. Took a gulp of champagne that likely burned the back of her throat. Emma hoped so. She was feeling kind of vengeful. “Picking The Godfather as one of your favorite movies is not a character fault, at least not entirely, but it also does not make sense that any of Killian’s potential dating interests wouldn’t line up perfectly with yours when it is so obvious how much he wants to date you. You came here together, for god's sake. </p>
<p>“We live together.”<br/><br/>“I’m going to shake you.” <br/><br/>“I’ll throw up on your shoes.” <br/><br/>“They were expensive, don’t do that.” <br/><br/>Huffing out a breath, Emma briefly considered the state of her lungs and their ability to withstand another lingering look at the roommate she’d spent far too much time pining over and thinking about and—</p>
<p>“I’m so bad at cooking.”<br/><br/>“I know,” Ruby nodded. “I don’t think he cares.” <br/><br/>“Yeah, but I—”</p>
<p>Wide eyes and an impressively straight row of teeth were all the warning Emma got before there was a hand on her shoulder and he smelled just as good as she was hopeful she hadn’t mentioned last night, but that felt like wishful thinking and Emma did not, in fact, eject any bodily fluids when Killian turned her. Victories, she was flush with them. </p>
<p>“Hey,” she breathed, and Ruby groaned so loudly it likely did damage to the ozone layer. </p>
<p>Killian’s lips twitched. “You got a second?”<br/><br/>“For wha—” <br/><br/>“—Time for you to go find your dog-obsessed date, Lucas.” <br/><br/>Ruby didn’t leave immediately. Emma was not surprised. “Are you going to explain things?” she demanded. “Because I think you should explain some things.” <br/><br/>“And I think you’re a God awful spy.” <br/><br/>“Delete your shit, then.” <br/><br/>Tensing the way he did made it all the more obvious when his tongue pressed into the side of his cheek, but Emma was seriously staring and doing a bad job of acting like she understood any part of this conversation, so she figured that made it almost a wash. “If I remembered it was there, I would have. Your date is very nice.” <br/><br/>“So is yours,” Ruby said, and Killian’s tongue didn’t move. Neither did Emma. </p>
<p>Frozen to the spot, she tried very hard to regulate her breathing and fix her pulse, and neither thing worked. And then. Something clicked — almost audibly in her brain, and her soul and her heart’s potential for explosion was suddenly something she had to worry about. </p>
<p>“Please don’t look at me like that,” Killian murmured. She barely heard him. Not when there were fingers tracing up her side and lingering on the small of her back, and Emma’s head moved her head as slowly as she could. </p>
<p>If she moved any faster, she’d either fall over or wake up from this very lucid dream and neither of those things were all that positive. </p>
<p>“You’ve got to stop cooking, love.”<br/><br/>“What?” Emma balked. </p>
<p>“Cooking, it’s—I love you a lot, but you are absolutely atrocious at it.”</p>
<p>The world stopped. Paused, at least. Gave Emma’s muddled mind a second to catch up, and she’d need several more seconds, but she also wasn’t quite that greedy and Killian’s smile widened. As soon as her fingers curled into his shirt. </p>
<p>He didn’t move his hands. </p>
<p>“I—” she stammered. “I am...but we don’t match!”<br/><br/>“Yeah, that’s Scarlet’s fault.”</p>
<p>A chorus of angry jeers rained down on them — Will using Robin to keep himself upright while he flipped Killian off with both hands. “Pining piner who pines like a goddamn idiot.”<br/><br/>“I’m trying to fix that,” Killian reasoned. Belle moved her hand — still lacking any sort of very pretty ring — towards her mouth, and her laughter poured out of her anyway, Mary Margaret’s shoulders shaking and Elsa’s phone held in one hand while a voice that sounded suspiciously like her younger sister demanded better viewing angles. </p>
<p>“What is happening right now?” Emma breathed, only cautiously optimistic she wanted the answer. </p>
<p>“Well, I’m fairly in love with you. To an almost ridiculous degree.”<br/><br/>“What?” <br/><br/>“Was that confusing, somehow?” <br/><br/>Opening her mouth, Emma could only close it. Several times over. No words actual came out, but there were a few embarrassing squeaks that caused another round of giggles and laughter from the peanut gallery. Killian kissed the bridge of her nose </p>
<p>“I do appreciate the cooking effort though,” he added. “But it’s a very old profile, made almost entirely by Scarlet in—”<br/><br/>“—It’s all opposite you, Em,” Will interrupted, hissing when it sounded like several people tried to kick him. “Slow on the uptake.” <br/><br/>More mental-clicks. Still no words, but Emma was starting to put the puzzle together and the hint of pink at the tips of Killian’s ears was almost enough to make this whole stupid thing worth it. </p>
<p>“I honestly forgot it existed,” Killian continued, “I’ve never used it, really. Just knew that Scarlet had made the thing, and then I ignored the messages and—”<br/><br/>“—Did you get a lot of messages?” Emma asked. </p>
<p>“Not as many as you did.”<br/><br/>“But you knew the sound!” He only shrugged. She was breathing very heavily. “Ok, ok, so—let me get this straight. You had a dating app profile that was looking for—” <br/><br/>“—The exact opposite of you, in some piss-poor attempt to help me stop being so into you,” Killian finished. “Yeah, you’re all up to speed.” <br/><br/>“All of you suck at reverse psychology,” Mary Margaret announced, although she didn’t sound all that upset. If anything, she was definitely just as close to swooning as Emma was, but that was also Emma’s base setting around her roommate and eventually she’d use that as an excuse. In, like, two minutes. </p>
<p>As it was, her fingers were already tight enough that Emma very easily pulled herself up and the hand at her waist helped keep her balanced and they were very good at this. Kissing, specifically. Heads tilted automatically to an angle that made it all too easy for Emma to open her mouth, and Killian’s tongue was even more distracting when it was brushing hers, and someone was groaning, but that might have been her, or possibly him and his hair was soft. Between her fingers. </p>
<p>Breathing was suddenly a secondary concern, and Emma’s lungs had already proved they were basically made of steel, or at least impervious to the flames currently exploding between her ribs and none of that was biologically accurate. </p>
<p>She never did find out where her pancreas was. </p>
<p>And she was so busy dealing with the way the solar system appeared to be reordering itself around the pair of them, that Emma didn’t notice the countdown or the metallic crown tossed at her feet. Only that there were eventually cheers and Ryan Seacrest’s face plastered across the TV on the other side of the room, and one of Killian’s hands had worked underneath her shirt. </p>
<p>The sparkly one that had made his eyes noticeably widen several hours earlier. </p>
<p>“How did you figure it out?”<br/><br/>“Happy New Year, Swan.” <br/><br/>“No, no, no,” she objected, “don’t deflect with me, I—” <br/><br/>“—Am very good at kissing. Even better than I thought you’d be.” <br/><br/>“Flattery will get you everywhere.” <br/><br/>“What if we left and made out in the backseat of the first car we could get?” <br/><br/>“A car two seconds after midnight? Might take a miracle.” <br/><br/>“I’m willing to take my chances on that front. Or we could find a closet or something.” <br/><br/>“Probably brooms inside.” <br/><br/>“This,” Will announced, holding Belle’s hand and her arm was stretched out in front of her. Light reflected from the stone. On one very specific finger. “Is absolutely disgusting. Who had asking at the party as the clock struck midnight in decidedly cliche fashion?” <br/><br/>Emma’s cheeks flushed. “Did we miss an entire proposal?” <br/><br/>“You did,” Belle confirmed. “Now c’mon, someone’s got to fess. Who was it?” <br/><br/>Part of her knew — some distant and equally cliche corner of her brain that waited for metaphorical miracles and the proof that Killian was even better at kissing than Emma could have begun to imagine, and it was strange to let that specific part reign supreme, but she figured there was something about New Year’s and all those fresh slates. <br/><br/>“I won,” Killian said, another wave of groans based almost entirely on double entendres. “And,” he added, glancing at Emma, “I suspected when your phone started going off, but then you kept cooking and it was ridiculously adorable, so—” <br/><br/>“—Oh my God,” David fumed, “Is this a thing we have to deal with now?” <br/><br/>Nodding, Killian’s smile was bright enough to warrant <em> beaming </em> as an adjective, and Emma might have giggled into his mouth. For several more prolonged seconds, before Will demanded the spotlight and the attention and they made out in the foyer while they waited for their car. </p>
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